


Come Back Home (It's Growing Colder and Colder Here)

by oxydiane, peachiinari



Series: I'm Home [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knives, M/M, Mild Gore, Physical Abuse, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Torture, Trigger warning:, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25111384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxydiane/pseuds/oxydiane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachiinari/pseuds/peachiinari
Summary: Gon and Killua were supposed to be inseparable.Wherever Gon went, Killua followed—always beside him, maybe one step behind. Killua hadn’t found his reason for living yet, but Gon’s words on Whale Island had been so encouraging, so gentle and full of love, that Killua found himself following behind Gon’s step.And that’s where everything goes wrong.They’re twelve, just twelve, when the Phantom Troupe grabs them.They’re twelve when the Phantom Troupe takes Gon from Killua.They’re twelve when Gon goes where Killua can no longer follow.Killua is sixteen, when he finally finds Gon again.And he’s nothing like he remembers.✧((or: Nobunaga manages to get Gon into the Phantom Troupe. Killua spends the following four years looking, until he finally finds Gon again.))
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Series: I'm Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818766
Comments: 186
Kudos: 695





	Come Back Home (It's Growing Colder and Colder Here)

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. This work may contain triggering content.

There’s dripping coming down from the ceiling. 

The water drops, one after another, one and two, and one and two. Killua listens quietly, eyes shut as he thinks. 

It’s cold. The abandoned building they're being held in is cold and decaying and Killua is sure that the draft of wind he feels shouldn’t even be possible—there aren’t any windows in the room or the hallway. The candles surrounding Nobunaga flicker with whatever air is present, eerie in its own way, lighting the gaunt curves of the man’s features. 

There’s only silence. 

Gon and him. They’re captured. The Phantom Troupe has them both, and Nobunaga is nothing short of boisterous in his attempts to nominate Gon into the troupe. Not him. _Gon._ And Gon had simply stuck out his tongue and flatly refused the suggestion—he’d been so quick to shoot down Nobunaga’s words, firmly stating he’d rather _die._

He can’t—

Killua swallows roughly. 

_He can’t let Gon die._

Gon, who sits beside him on another slab and thumbs the dorsal of his hand to soothe the pain and wipe away the blood from the arm-wrestling match. 

Nobunaga wants to take Gon—wants to make him just like them. Just like Killua used to be. 

His thoughts spiral. 

Killua shouldn’t; he shouldn’t fight an opponent stronger than him. He knows he’ll lose—Illumi drilled that into him. And yet, with the current circumstances, Killua feels like he’s losing himself, just a little. His aura bursts out, and he can’t control it: can’t control the step forward he takes or the trembling of his hand or the sweat that slides down his face and nape.

Cackling laughter.

Nobunaga is laughing at him. He’s standing there and reaching for his sword and _laughing._

That man—that man can slice him in half if he just comes into range. He’s threatened it, too.

Frustration bubbles and foams within Killua. He grinds his teeth and tightens his fingers into a fist. 

_There’s no chance._

_He’s not enough._

Quickly, Killua turns around—huffing in annoyance—abandoning the fight before it can even begin. Gon is staring at him, Killua can see his wide eyes and slightly-agape mouth from his peripheral. He can see the anger simmer within Gon, the way he furrows his brows once Killua returns to his slab and sits. 

“Killua—”

_They need to get out._

The trembling of his hands won’t stop. No matter how much he tries to quell it.

_Get a grip,_ he spits at himself—thinks the words over and over as if that will be enough to cure him of the overwhelming fear. The type that paralyzes him. He repeats the phrase over and over, again and again until it’s the only thing he _can_ think, as if that will be enough to make him get himself together and save his best friend. 

Gon keeps rambling about Zepile’s words. The thing he taught them—with the statue and trove. Cauterization, autopsy, something else. He’s not sure. Can’t remember. Killua’s thoughts are jumbled and a mess and he can’t focus on what Gon is asking of him: there’s no point in focusing on something like that when they need to get out.

“Gon,” Killua interrupts, his voice firm, “I’ll be the decoy. Wait for it, and then you try to escape.” 

From the corner of his eye, Killua can see the way Gon’s eyes harden. The way his brows furrow in a tell-tale way Killua has learned means that he’s especially serious and especially mad. 

“What are you talking about, Killua?” Gon asks. His voice is devoid of its usual childish lilt. 

Upsetting Gon isn’t something he likes doing. But losing him is worse. 

It fills a bigger dread in him than the thought of Gon being upset at him, if only for a while. 

Nobunaga sighs, ripping Killua from his thoughts. 

Killua stares ahead at him. Which form of action to take? How does he take Nobunaga on? From the front? The side? Maybe a direct attack wouldn’t work, but maybe it could, since Nobunaga may not expect him to come for him headfirst. But even if he didn’t, his reaction speed is faster than Killua’s.

Nobunaga knows that Killua is trying to get Gon out alive. He can hear them. 

He doesn’t stand a chance. 

Frustration claws within him—the smell of fear is potent, too. 

He’s used to the smell of fear. He’s used to it coming from others. From people he’s threatened or people he’s about to kill—people he’s going to hurt. But this? This smell of fear is coming from him. Coming from him losing Gon, and worse, dying. Leaving Gon.

“Look, seriously. Forget all about it.” Nobunaga’s eyes are staring them down. The fear spikes within him—and he sucks in a breath and forces himself to breathe through it. 

_He hates feeling like this._

_Like his brother is right here and never left. Like the fear will crash over him like the high-tide and suffocate him—turn his skin blue and eyes red and choke him of his last breath._

Killua has to remind himself that Gon came for him. Gon took him away from the Zoldyck Manor because they were best friends—because he wanted to continue to hang out with him.

He has to return the favor. 

“You won’t catch me off-guard.” 

Nobunaga is getting serious. 

Killua _knows_ he won’t. He knows that beating Nobunaga is near impossible.

_Which is why he—_

He just has to—

The voices don’t let him _think._ He’s going to die—He’s going to die or fail Gon or get Gon killed or Gon won’t escape. Gon, Gon, Gon.

_Run._

“Shut up!” He shouts. He’s overwhelmed. His voice echoes around the room and he can faintly hear it down the hall and he just—

A shift. Abrupt in nature. Killua is standing, walking towards Nobunaga once again, and then he can hear Gon clambering to his feet after him. He can hear Gon’s boots clumsily hit the ground as he walks over and grabs Killua’s shoulder with one calloused hand and grips hard. 

He’s holding Killua there in an attempt to ground him, Killua knows.

“Killua, what are you thinking of doing?” 

A quiet, trembling breath. Breathe. In and out. Calm yourself. 

“I’ll stop his shodachi, even if it kills me. Once I do, I want you to run away.” 

Gon’s features are blank. And then they shift into anger—and Gon is growling in frustration before a fist collides with the back of Killua’s head—forcing Killua to grit his teeth from the pain. He crinkles his nose and whips around to face Gon, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling Gon up towards him, until their faces are close. 

Gon’s brows are pulled down and he’s grinding his teeth. 

Killua makes a face. “What the hell was that for, huh?” 

“Stop being selfish!” Gon’s voice rings out.

Confusion slips onto Killua’s features. He pushes Gon away slightly, huffing. 

Gon continues: “Don’t talk about dying like it’s no big deal!” 

More question marks fill Killua’s head. Anger bubbles dangerously close to overspilling. 

“You said the same thing earlier!” 

“I’m allowed to, but you’re not!”

Even in his frustration, Killua nearly laughs at the absurdity of Gon’s words. 

“Do you hear me?” Gon asks, punctuating his words firmly. 

The way Gon insists that Killua can’t speak of dying, but he can. The way that Gon claims he can lay his life for Killua, but he can’t for Gon. Gon, who has done so much for Killua, who means so much to him—he’s not letting him _help._ All Killua wants to do is help Gon, too. 

The anger boils over. 

He pulls Gon closer, his fingers nearly slipping into sharp knives. 

He can’t—

“We can’t escape unless we’re prepared to die, idiot! You don’t know what I was thinking!” Killua’s voice is nearly venturing into shrilly-panicked territory. 

His hands are still trembling. Even now. He fears death more than he fears losing Gon—he’s going to get Gon killed like this. It’ll be his fault, he needs to get a grip. 

“No, I don’t know, ‘cause I’m stupid!” 

Silence. And then—

Nobunaga gives a hearty laugh—Killua’s thoughts zero in on wishing he would simply disappear. He wants nothing more than to make him shut up and leave them alone. He only wants Gon because he reminds him of Uvogin. He simply sees Gon as a way to fill up a gap Uvogin left. Killua is sure of it. 

The insistence of having Gon, specifically, in the troupe? It worries Killua. 

It festers an ugly feeling within him. An amalgamation of all the poisons he’s been forced to consume as a child for training. 

Except this is worse. 

This is him having no resistance. This is him having to learn to battle with the poison while it’s still in his system. 

Nobunaga’s laughter dies down. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just behave.” 

Just behave.

_Just behave?_

Incredulity fills Killua’s senses. His ears ring until it’s near painful, until he itches to clutch his ears and shut out the voices that clamor. His heart rate accelerates all at once, and he’s left breathless, with rage searing below his skin.

Gon is mumbling under his breath, shuffling through his thoughts, eyebrows furrowed and fingers thumbing his chin—and then he’s making a noise of excitement, turning to Killua with a bright smile, grinning wide. 

“I remember!” He exclaims, “Ostomy! The other thing Zephile taught us was Ostomy!” 

It all clicks. 

Sort of like a lightbulb.

Everything comes rushing back to Killua. The lesson and the statue and the trove. The way they’re going to escape, _the both of them,_ together, out of this place, is through Zepile’s teachings. The way they’re going to get away from Nobunaga and the Phantom Troupe. They’ve figured it out. 

Killua grins back at Gon, giving a laugh. 

They assume their positions—both Killua and Gon crouch, releasing their aura and getting ready. 

A noise of surprise. “Are you serious?” 

Nobunaga follows to stand, grabbing his sword and positioning himself. 

“You’re going to die.” 

No hesitation.

There’s no time for that.

The trembling of Killua’s hands stop, and they’re rushing forward on the balls of their feet, making a sharp turn and switching sides—Gon takes the right wall and Killua takes the left, and they break through the deteriorating sheetrock and cement effortlessly. Pieces of crumbs fall apart, and the sound of shattered infrastructure resounds and rings in Killua’s ears. 

They just have to make their own exit. 

And yet—

Killua realizes with a start that he’s not the one being chased. 

The moment he feels Nobunaga’s aura get further from him, he realizes Nobunaga is going after Gon _—of course_ he’s going after Gon. 

His heart hammers in his chest, partly in worry, partly in adrenaline. 

_Gon will be okay,_ the voices blend together in his head. 

“Killua, are you there?” 

Gon’s voice echoes within the empty halls. He can hear him clearly though, even over the pumping of his blood and thudding of his heart.

A wave of relief washes over Killua. He feels like he can breathe again. 

“Yeah, I’m here!” He calls out, punching down another wall. He can hear Gon behind him, running.

_Okay. Okay. This is fine. They’re going to make it out._

“We can beat him! The two of us!”

It’s just a decoy. Gon is right behind him. It’s only to rile up Nobunaga. 

He knows this because Killua can hear Gon right behind him, as they run over debris and molded drywall. He can hear Gon’s footsteps over the cracked tile ground, slamming against the dust and dirt and rising it into the air, clouding their vision. They’re making their escape. Neither of them will get hurt, not any more than they already are. No dying, no sacrifices. 

A shaky smile stretches Killua’s lips, knowing they’ve made it out. 

Another wall shatters in the distance. 

Nobunaga’s aura disappears. 

He’s gone into Zetsu, probably.

_But they’re out._

The clearing of the empty lots comes into view, and Killua can see the night sky, stars illuminating their path to safety. He allows his thoughts to wander just a bit—to Whale Island, to the stargazing. The stars in the city aren’t as pretty as they are on Whale Island. 

Killua jumps over the tall chain-link fence effortlessly, hopping out and over to the other side, where they can make their escape and get back to Kurapika. 

“That idiot, we didn’t even have to stop to evade him.”

He turns and feels the breath punched out of him as soon as his eyes land on it. 

Nothing.

There’s nothing there. There’s _no one_ there, standing where—

Gon—

—Gon isn’t here.

“Gon?” Small. The utterance of his name is small. 

Killua didn’t ever think he could say his name so defeatedly. 

_Gon isn’t here._

He turns. Rapidly, so quick that his world tilts on his axis and he’s sure he would’ve fallen over if not for his balance. But he looks in every direction—left and right and does a look-over again. He even peers back inside the area they came from, fingers tightening around the cool metal of the fence. 

Gon isn’t there, in the clearing either. 

He can’t see Gon. 

It’s not a trick. 

Gon wouldn’t. He wouldn’t prank Killua like this. 

Not like this.

His heart sinks and shatters and decays and rots and—

Everything. Everything, all at once. 

The fear that had coursed through him and had quelled, it revives itself even stronger this time, pumping into his bloodstream like a drug. His breath is shallow. It’s hard to breathe and his vision swarms and the fear is stabbing him like a barbed wire. 

Killua’s eyes are wide, and he’s panting, struggling to catch his breath.

His hand comes up to grip his shirt, to tug at the material at his chest as a way to ground himself.

And then he realizes:

Killua can’t recall when their pair of running footsteps had turned into one. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A week goes by, and Killua can’t find Gon. 

The auction happened. The Troupe wasn’t there. Or maybe they were. Killua didn’t know. He’d been back at the abandoned complex, for the umpteenth time that week. 

_Gon isn’t anywhere._

He’s scouted the building and accompanying parking lot more times than he can count. He’s scouted it so many times that he’s memorized every turn and corner and room. He knows that there’s a crack on the staircase, where several mice live and hide—he’s seen them come out at night. He knows that the bars creak if you hold it at a specific point and grip it a certain way. 

He’s memorized Gon at every corner of this building, staring at him with disappointment.

He imagines Gon sitting there, bloody and beat and worn, eyes empty and skin ugly, staring at nothing and saying, _“I was waiting for you. What took you so long?”_

Killua doesn’t ever want to imagine what Gon’s voice sounds like when it’s empty. 

The desperation claws within him. 

All Kurapika does is apologize—swear he’ll make the Troupe pay. 

Leorio keeps to himself, and he looks composed, but Killua knows better—his eyes are downcast and dark. 

Killua hasn’t slept since Gon disappeared.

It’s been eight days, nearly nine. Killua returns to the building every day in hopes that there’ll be something. Anything. He needs a pointer in the right direction. His body is tired and craves sleep, there are bags under his eyes and Killua is sure that his family would chide him for allowing himself to fall this far. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He has to find Gon. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Sleeping fills Killua with dread. The mere _idea_ of it makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

It’s unrelenting in its grip, in its ways of showing Killua everything he did wrong. Sometimes, it’ll show him Gon’s discarded, limp body in a corner—Killua stumbling upon it in his search for him. Other times, it’s Gon standing there and not forgiving him for having left him, blaming him for everything. 

The rarest of times, Gon’s corpse will rise, streaming black tears, veins blue and prominent, skin pale and cold and rigid. He’ll stand with open wounds and look at Killua with empty eyes and say that Killua was a terrible friend for leaving him to die. That he regrets ever meeting him. 

Those nights are the hardest. 

Training with Bisky makes it easier. She makes him forget. She fills his day with training and forces him to awake throughout the night—a light sleep that won’t let him fall into a REM cycle and make him dream of those scenarios. He’s thankful for that. 

But even then, she can’t erase the hollow feeling in his chest. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that Gon isn’t just lagging behind him, or exploring another part of the area ahead of him. It’s hard to swallow the fact that even after three months of looking, he still had no insight on Gon’s whereabouts. The guilt and regret never leave him. The voices clamor. 

It’s his fault—he reminds himself of this.

If he’d looked behind, if he’d glanced back earlier to look at Gon, he would’ve noticed sooner than Gon wasn’t keeping up with him.

He could’ve saved Gon. 

Three months later, he's in Greed Island.

They were supposed to play this game together—to find Ging. 

Now, Killua stands in a barren landscape with a fifty-seven-year-old hag, training hard to get stronger and find Gon. There are times where he’ll thumb the ring on his finger, play with it absentmindedly as he thinks or practices the more advanced forms of Nen. 

_It’s not even his ring. It’s Gon’s—the ring that Ging had left for him._

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop himself from using the ring—it was the last thing he had of Gon, besides his worn backpack and fishing rod. It’s the only proof he has that Gon _existed._ That Gon was his best friend and he was here, with him, at one point, until he wasn’t.

_Gon had been so excited to play this game._

_And yet, now, Gon’s ring sits on his finger instead of Gon’s._

Electricity hums just beneath his fingertips, coursing through his body with his displeased mental state.

“You’re not focusing,” bites Bisky’s disapproving voice from behind him, “Your Ko is all over the place.” 

Killua hums, trying to refocus. He needs to learn everything he can so he can find Gon faster.

How long will he keep looking? How long until he finds Gon?

Unsure. Scared. _Spiraling._

_He’s spiraling._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


One year.

It’s been over a year. 

It’s been over two hundred independent jobs, twelve different contacts used up.

They all led to dead ends. 

Killua’s nowhere near giving up—but _fuck._ Fuck if it’s hard. It’s hard waking up every morning, every day in a new location. It’s hard waking up and barely remembering Gon’s voice. It’s hard waking up at dawn and setting off to find more information. It’s hard coming back to his hotel or leased apartment or city park bench at three in the morning. 

He grits his teeth as he walks down another city block. It’s just another place without Gon. 

The memories are harder and harder to hold onto. 

Gon’s laughter—his giggles and chuckles and huffs of amusement. Gon’s inhales when mad, his exhales when trying to relax. His giddy exclamations at discovering something new or his firm gaze when challenged with an obstacle. His soft smile and warm hand and small stature. 

It’s all so hard to remember. 

But Killua is glad his name still falls from Gon’s lips every time he thinks about it.

He’s relieved that he can still hear Gon’s voice, at all. 

This next contact he’s meeting up with is supposedly even less reliable than the last one. 

Kurapika had suggested him over the phone, just after Killua had hung up with Alluka. 

The man was supposed to have some information on the Troupe’s whereabouts _—something_ on them. But he was also known for bailing on deals and taking the contract halfway. And if he was dealing with Killua, then he had to know that Killua wouldn’t let him slip away so easily. 

A grin laces his lips, and Killua tugs on his black turtleneck, hiking it further up his face to cover his mouth. 

His eyes sharpen. 

He’s been in Zetsu since he entered this city. 

There’s no getting away from him, no perceiving him. No one knows him or remembers him. 

Ever since he dug out that needle from his forehead, the urge to run has ceased. Illumi isn’t in his head, he’s not dictating his moves and it’s a step closer to finding Gon after months of only having his hunter license to hold onto. 

_Third floor, large silver building._

Killua remembers the point of contact. 

The man he’s supposed to be waiting for is large—bald and covered in tattoos. Kurapika had warned him about controlling his approach, but this was fine. He’s not twelve anymore: he knows better than to make faces or act out of line. He knows better, because it’s the only way to get on someone’s good side and find more information. 

The front door of the building opens. 

Killua walks in, stepping further inside, exiting the heat of the sunny weather and entering cool air conditioning. 

Absentmindedly, as he walks up the stairs, he flickers through each of his thoughts. 

The trade for information, the payment, the contact and the terms of the agreement. Who’s targeted and how Killua gets his share of the deal. 

And then he also thinks about Alluka. 

After taking her from his family, along with Nanika, he’d left her in Bisky’s care. 

Bisky had been more than happy to take care of two young girls as he continued his search for Gon. 

Even if Killua does call her a hag—he appreciates her efforts and her care. 

A small smile graces his lips, and as he reaches the third floor, it melts straight off. His eyes darken and his bloodlust oozes just slightly—spreads like a silent serpent around the hall. 

He’s going to find Gon. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He’s running. 

His breath is bated and he’s running as fast as he can, heart thudding and blood pumping, boots hitting against the pavement silently as he bolts down the street with Speed of Lightning. 

He did it. He did exactly as asked.

In the winter air, his breath fans out, a white puff of air, and he stutters out a choked breath—sweat running down his face as he comes into view of the man waiting outside, just below a streetlight. 

Killua wants to swear him out for being in a compromising spot. That man _knows._ He knows about the Phantom Troupe and their whereabouts, and Killua held up his end of the deal. He did his stupid task—did exactly as he said and completed his mission, and now he wants his end of the deal. 

He’s close. He’s so close. 

Most of his contacts had either run off or been killed before he could reach them. 

But this man is right there, and he’s going to tell him what he needs. A pointer in the right direction after four years of aimlessly _hoping_ to come across a hint. Fumbling for something of any worth in his search for Gon. He’s been waiting for this moment.

In a way, the weather reflects his anticipation. The night is dark, and there aren’t any stars in the sky—there are no crickets chirping or cars running. There’s only just silence—baiting him. 

And it’s the only reason Killua hears it before he sees it. 

Something is falling. 

Just before he can reach his contact—a figure is freefalling from the top of the building, horizontally still, nearly hidden in the darkness of the sky. But Killua hears them, hears their clothing whipping from the force of the wind and hears the unsheathing of knives, before dropping right in front of his contractor and running the blade across his neck. 

Boots click against the ground as the figure steps backward, trying to not step in the expanding pool of blood.

Killua feels Godspeed drain out of him, eyes wide, mouth agape. 

_His contact is on the floor, dead._

He’s bleeding out, neck slit open, and he can see the wet blood thickly starting to spread and cover the asphalt. His heart sinks in his chest. He did everything he asked. He smuggled the girl into the Mimbo Republic. He got her there safely and to her mother. He made sure to keep watch until the actual bodyguards arrived. He did everything and—

“Couldn’t you have died a lot less messy?” The figure’s voice is flat. Bored.

But Killua’s hands shake regardless. 

Not from the rage. 

Not from the fear. 

He knows that voice. 

Knows that voice because it’s the only thing he’s _known_ for the past four years. 

And it feels like the breath is kicked out of him once again when the figure turns. 

The first thing Killua notices is the blood. It’s matted on their clothing—it’s not their first kill as of recent. He recognizes some blood is dry, but other sections are wet. He can smell death on this figure. But there’s more than just that. It’s _more_ than just that. 

“And now, to deal with you.” 

The tan skin, dotted with freckles like constellations. 

The figure pauses, and the hood slips off their head as they turn. 

Thick, black hair—no longer spiked but now long and picked up into a ponytail. 

“Gon—” Killua feels choked. 

It’s weird, saying his name after so many years. 

_That’s Gon._

_Gon is standing right there, facing him, just a few feet away._

And he’s covered in blood.

The blank expression on his face slips right off instantly. Several emotions flicker on his face at lightning speed: confusion, surprise, awe, anger. He opens and shuts his mouth several times, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to find the words and Killua is so _overwhelmed._

Gon sheths the knives back to their straps on his thighs. 

_God—_ his entire attire is different. 

A halter turtleneck, black shorts, a black material coming up and wrapping around his entire leg up to his thigh, kind of like a sock.

There’s no hint of green—no hint of _his_ Gon. There’s no innocence, no child-like demeanor. 

Killua feels like he’s staring into a past version of himself. When he was controlled by Illumi and the needle was still in his head and he was forced to _kill_ people. As much as Killua doesn’t want to believe it, that’s Gon standing before him, eyes searching his in the silence. 

One step forward. Killua outstretches his hand for Gon.

Gon looks like he wants to take one step back. He stands his ground. 

“Uhm, hi… Killua.” Gon still says his name so softly. 

Killua lets his hand fall down to his side uselessly. 

“Gon…” It’s still hard to catch his breath. 

His heart beats erratically and his thoughts are jumbled and filled only with Gon’s face and voice and smile and presence. How does he even react? Does he pull Gon close? Tell him he’s finally found him? For as much as Killua searched for Gon, he never planned for what he’d tell him once he found him.

And then he sees it. 

There, sitting on Gon’s left outer thigh, peeking just out of the little black shorts—a large spider tattoo, inked with the number eleven.

A pit opens in his stomach and his heart sinks with it. His breath stops altogether and he feels the tears line his eyes when Gon frowns and follows his line of vision, realizing what he was staring at.

He watches the way Gon tries to unsuspiciously cover the tattoo with the hem of his hood. And he sucks in a breath—vision warping and spinning and he’s trying so hard to keep up with everything running through his head but he feels so light-headed. 

_Gon was in the Troupe._

_He was in the Phantom Troupe._

_Nobunaga got exactly what he wanted._

A shaky exhale. “You’re alive…” 

Gon nods slowly. 

The silence is stifling. 

“You’re part of the Troupe now?” 

No amount of training could prepare Killua for _this._ There is not a single technique his family could’ve done on him, not a single session of torture, not a single method of abuse, that would’ve braced him for this. There is not a single day of training on Greed Island that Bisky could’ve used to prepare Killua for this. 

Nothing in these past years could’ve prepared him for this reality. 

Another nod. 

He can’t believe this.

“Uh…” Gon’s voice trails off, lost. 

_It shouldn’t be like this,_ Killua thinks. 

_This is all wrong—it feels so wrong._

The awkwardness, the silence. The glances and hesitance and barriers. 

“How have you… been?” 

The words are quiet, spoken just above a whisper. Killua’s not sure he can reach out and feel Gon’s skin—he’s not sure if Gon would want him to, no matter how much Killua craves it. 

He seems to have said the wrong thing, because Gon’s gaze hardens, and his eyebrows furrow deep. 

“I should get going. It was... nice seeing you, Killua.” 

It sounds so inhuman. So devoid of emotion. 

It’s not _Gon._

Killua scrambles to say something—anything. He’s found Gon. He found him after four years, _fuck._ He won’t let him go, not again. 

“Wuh—Wait, Gon… I…” Killua stumbles in his words as Gon reaches behind his head for his hood. “I don’t know how Mito is, have you gone to see her?” 

_It’s a low blow._

_Good god, that was such a low blow._

_Using Gon’s own mother against him._

Killua grimaces internally. 

But the question is enough. It makes Gon freeze, releasing the hood. Killua watches as his hands clench and unclench as his sides, and his expression turns into something more sour—drenched in worry. 

Hazel eyes look up at him after a moment of hesitation.

“You don’t—you don’t know how Aunt Mito is?” Gon asks, and his voice is small. 

So then it seems Gon hasn’t gone to see her since… _this._

Killua quickly shakes his head. He takes another step forward. 

Gon seems too lost in his thoughts or just doesn’t care that Killua is getting closer. 

“No—I, I just…” He trails off. “I didn’t have the heart to go see her after you were taken. I couldn’t look her in the face after—after everything.” 

He struggles to say what really happened. 

Four years, and he still can’t accept those events. 

And Gon’s eyes harden again—he bites his lip in thought and doesn’t speak a single word. He just frowns, and it deepens every passing second. 

The wind makes the ponytail in Gon’s hair shift with the breeze. 

Smothering silence. 

Killua’s lips tremble with the need to cry, and he laughs nervously. 

“C’mon, let’s—let’s go see Mito?”

It’s a question. 

_Please say yes._

Gon hesitates. “I don’t know.” 

Killua swallows and wrings his hands. “I’m sure she’d like to see you… after, y’know… all this?” 

It’s so manipulative. 

He’s manipulating Gon. 

Killua is a master at it, and yet it hurts to have to say these things—it stings that this is the only thing he can say to get Gon to reason with him and come along. 

Gon stares at him. 

His face flickers between emotions. His eyes hold something Killua can’t place. 

“Mito doesn’t want to see me.” Gon’s voice is flat. 

A frown laces Killua’s face. 

“What?” 

“She doesn’t want to see me.” 

Killua takes a step forward, reaching out for Gon. “That’s not true. She’s your mom, Gon.” 

Gon bristles, this time taking a step back. “She _won’t_ want to see me, Killua.” 

He wants to reach for Gon’s shoulders and shake him, or maybe grip the collar of his stupid turtleneck and pull him to his face and call him an idiot for ever thinking Mito wouldn’t care about Gon, or his whereabouts. It’s been four years of radio silence, and Killua is sure she must be worried. 

In the end, Killua refrains from grabbing Gon and takes a deep breath. 

“Mito hasn’t known anything about you for the past four years, Gon. I think she deserves to know how her son is doing.” 

His face becomes cold, empty eyes staring into Killua’s—and it’s hard to look Gon in the face. It’s hard to see his best friend no longer _look_ like his best friend. Those hazel eyes that used to be so full of life are now so, so empty. His face is paler, he looks skinnier. 

It’s like he’s a completely different person. 

Killua can’t stand to look at him. 

So he doesn’t. 

Killua averts his gaze to the side, looking down at the pavement. 

Several moments pass in complete silence. His heart is beating rapidly, unsure and scared. 

_It’s been a long time since he’s felt like that._

“No.” Gon’s voice is firm. Decisive. It’s unrelenting in its force and threatens any opposition, and _how is Killua supposed to just convince him to come?_

The beating of his heart stills with the realization that Gon might not follow. Killua looks up, desperate.

“Gon—”

“She’d be dis—” Gon chokes on his words, averting his gaze. “She just won’t want to see me.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Killua says, frustration lining his voice. “She’s your mother.” 

“And I’m me.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I know what she’ll say.”

“That’s—”

“Everything has _changed,”_ Gon rambles. He stumbles over his words, shakily inhaling. “She wouldn’t look at me… Look at me the same.”

Oh.

Killua _almost_ reaches out. He almost lets his fingers caress the inside of Gon’s wrist to pull him closer and soothe him. He stomps on that urge as quickly as it comes. Gon had bristled when Killua had only taken a step forward, towards him. If Killua touched him, who knew how he’d react. 

“Change…” Killua starts, barely above a whisper, and he forces himself to look into Gon’s eyes, no matter how dark they seem. “Change isn’t always for the worst. Maybe she’ll look at you in an even better way.” 

Gon’s eyes widen, just slightly. 

Killua averts his gaze, scared of his response. 

“Fine.” 

He barely catches the word. 

Killua’s head whips up, and he stares at Gon. “Huh?”

Gon’s eyes are unnerving. Killua misses their light. 

“Let’s—I’ll go see Mito.” 

If Killua hadn’t been paying close attention, he would’ve missed the way Gon’s eyes soften just a little when he agrees. 

Killua smiles, gentle and as tender as he can muster, despite the trembling of his lips and the wetness in his eyes. This is okay—he has Gon now. Gon is here, with him, _alive,_ and the thought makes his throat spasm and close up: makes it harder to breathe. 

“Alright, let’s go then.” Killua looks at Gon and then the ocean view. “It’s three in the morning. There’s probably a private boat we can hire to take us to Whale Island.” 

A moment of silence.

“I hope she’ll want to see me.” Gon mumbles. Killua looks over, brows furrowed, taking in Gon’s question.

“She’ll want to see you.”

Gon’s eyes flicker up, before realizing he’d spoken aloud and bristles. 

“Don’t.” He bites. 

There are a lot of emotions brewing on his face. Something behind his eyes and something on his mind—Killua can see the way he chews on his lip and bites his cheek. The way he flexes his fingers and relaxes them, takes a quiet, low breath to steady himself.

Killua keeps his mouth shut.

The walk there shouldn’t take long. 

Jappon and Whale Island aren’t ridiculously far, so Killua estimates that it shouldn’t be anywhere longer than a day’s time at sea. They’ll have to stay on the ship, figure something out before seeing Mito. Figure something out between themselves. There’s so much apprehension—it’s stifling. 

It makes Killua’s throat seize and spasm, his eyes water. 

He’s found Gon. 

_But at what cost?_

The silence between them is different. Killua wishes the circumstances were different. He’d take anything over this—over this odd air and choking fear and smothering silence. He gives his best smile.

“The boats should already be on the docks—for fishing, uhm,” Killua tries to make conversation, “Since it’s summer and the water is hot, they set out earlier.” 

Gon doesn’t turn his head to look at him. He keeps looking down the road they walk, keeping his form small and arms stiffly by his side. His lips are set in a straight line. 

“I know.” 

Killua’s expression falls, and he turns his attention towards the road. The asphalt is wet from the rain just earlier tonight, and Killua itches to look back and look at his contractor—Gon hadn’t bothered to even clean up his corpse, leaving it there for someone to find and discard themselves. 

He decides against peering back. 

“There’s a boat down the dock.” Gon says blankly. 

It spurs Killua out of his thoughts. 

And Gon is right. The boat isn’t large by any means, and it’s probably a one-manned ship—but they don’t need anything grand, and traveling large is bound to be more noticeable anyway. Killua looks from Gon to the ship, and back at Gon, before stopping.

He almost reaches out to grab him.

He refrains. 

“Gon—” 

“You do the talking. A storm is coming” 

Killua’s brows furrow. 

_What?_

“Uh—alright.”

_They’re both older now._

Sixteen and taller, no longer holding a child-like appearance. Killua is almost worried that they’ll be denied a ride, or be pushed away and rejected harshly. And that isn’t necessarily a problem, but Killua wants to make it on the ship and be out at sea before Gon can change his mind about seeing Mito. 

He’s surprised when the old sailor agrees, with a big grin and a joyous nod—ushering them to board quickly.

Killua turns to smile at Gon, but Gon is already walking past him and getting onto the ship, raising his hand at the man in greeting and turning towards the back of the boat where Killua can’t see him.

“Quiet fellow?” The old man asks. He doesn’t sound offended at the lack of conversation exchanged. 

A sigh softly escapes his lips. 

“Wasn’t always this quiet.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gon was right. 

A storm hits. 

Just a little ways mid-day, the sun disappears behind a curtain of grey clouds. Thick, brewing skies of darkness, and the sea turns black under them. It rocks the boat and creaks the wood—and soon Killua hears the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the deck above the room he was in. 

He’s not sure where Gon is. 

The old man is kind. He offered them some food and drinks, going as far as to even mention how far away they were from Whale Island.

_Just a couple of hours from Jappon, down by the equator. We shouldn’t be at sea longer than ten hours,_ he’d said.

But Gon hadn’t bothered to even mention the fact that a storm was coming. He hadn’t uttered anything at all—opting to sit in a corner of the ship in silence. Killua hadn’t tried to make conversation, but it still stung. It stung a lot, to stand there, with Gon right in his grasp, and be unable to say anything, to _do_ anything. 

Gon wanted nothing to do with him.

The rain is getting stronger. 

Killua pushes the door open, treading onto the deck to look for Gon. 

The boat has a single room down below, besides the captain's cabin and quarterdeck. If Gon isn’t with him, then Gon must be outside in the rain. He’s not sure if he wants to tell Gon to come down into the hull or not. He hears thunder in the distance. 

Gentle steps—Killua is careful as he steps outside. The wood is soaking wet, and Killua is quiet in his approach, careful not to slip. The smell of salt hits straight on, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. The old man is steering the wheel on the quartering deck, posture relaxed. 

“Lad, looking for your friend?” 

Killua nods. 

A smile laces his lips, wrinkling and stretching the sagging skin. “He’s sitting up on the mainmast. ‘M surprised he got up there at all, he’s a strong fellow.” 

His brows furrow, and Killua turns, craning his neck up to squint through the pelting rain and darkness. 

Sure enough, Gon is sitting there, staring into the sea and the sky. He doesn’t even flinch when a clap of lightning resounds and lights up the dark waters, painting the sky a bright white. Thunder rumbles, and yet Gon stays there, unmoving. 

The wind is strong. It’s whipping the strands of his hair wildly, and that’s when Gon moves—hands coming up and reaching back, fingers deftly pulling at the band in his hair, shaking his head softly to force the wet locks apart, letting all of it be blown with the wind. 

Dark black strands, longer than what Killua had imagined. Gon’s hair has to at least reach his stomach—sweeping and thick, flapping in the wind. And then another rumble, another clap of thunder, and then another ray of light extends down and hits the ocean, brightening up everything again. 

_Gon’s form is pretty._

Had it been just a few years ago, when they were still friends and _comfortable,_ Killua would be sitting right beside him, and maybe they’d be enjoying the sea together, or maybe they’d be telling jokes, practicing their nen—figuring out their next plan of action. Instead, Killua stands below, and he can’t help but stare.

His eyes are wide—his mouth slightly agape. 

Even the rain that smacks the deck harshly seems to caress Gon’s skin. He’s practically glowing despite his attire blending him in perfectly with the sky and sea. 

His cheeks heat up, just a little—warm his skin slightly from the cold of the rain. Killua struggles to avert his eyes. 

The sailor whistles.

“How long have you and the lad known each other?” 

Killua hesitates. 

Can he even count those four years? 

Four years of searching for Gon—four years of blindly grasping the darkness and hoping to be clued in on his location. Killua isn’t sure those years can count towards anything except his utter distress. He decides against giving a specific number. 

“We’ve been friends for a long time.”

The words come out softer than he intended. 

A chuckle. 

“Right, _friends.”_

It takes more willpower than Killua cares to admit to keep from turning towards the man.

Instead, he continues to stare up at Gon—

—And can’t help the small, tender smile that forms on his lips. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Whale Island is like an untouchable oasis. 

It hasn’t changed a single bit, not since the last four years. 

As Killua treks up the mountain, Gon following behind him, he notes the chirping birds and the color of the sunset. The green of the grass. Even from here, he can still smell the sweet scent of the ocean salt, and it wafts through the breeze calmly. The palms shake and the leaves blow, and this is the most at peace Killua has felt in a long time. 

Though it’s funny.

Today is almost an exact replica of the last time he visited with Gon.

Except the roles are reversed. 

While Killua leads, Gon stays behind him. His footsteps are quiet, nearly silent, as they walk through the dense forest to reach Mito’s house. And his form is hunched, hiding into himself as he walks, arms close to his body and head hanging down, staring at the ground—

Gon must be lost in his own thoughts. 

The posture is telling. He’s anxious.

It strikes Killua that he’s never truly seen Gon like this. His long hair is coming down and covering his face, strands of black shadowing his features. But Killua has never known Gon to be like this. He was used to a glint of determination, a grin of excitement, a happy smile: anxious was never a word Killua would associate with Gon. 

Mito’s house _—Gon’s home—_ comes into view. Bright, white walls and clothing lines. The door is front open, and the windows have been pulled up to let in the breeze. Excitement bubbles within Killua when he sees Mito at the laundry line, undoing a white sheet from the line, back facing them.

“Mito!” 

She’s turning quickly, spinning around within seconds, eyes wide and searching—and her expression crumbles into relief when she lays her eyes upon Killua. She looks older than Killua remembers, even though it’s only been four years. 

“Killua!” She says, dropping the dry sheet onto the grass and coming forward, grasping his hands into hers and giving a tight squeeze. 

Before she can speak, Killua interrupts her, stepping aside. She frowns, before her eyes set upon Gon, and her mouth widens, expression breathless. Her delicate, calloused hands are coming undone from Killua’s, releasing him and reaching forward, approaching Gon carefully. 

He’s still not looking up.

Gon is looking down at the ground in shame, fingers clenching and unclenching nervously. Killua doesn’t miss the slight trembling of his figure. 

“Gon…” Mito’s voice is a gentle lull.

His head snaps up, gaze hesitant but full of wonder, and the strands of his hair fall and cover bits of his face—wild and unkempt and frizzled from the storm. There’s some color in his eyes—some brightness. Killua’s heart tightens; his throat closes up. 

It’s silent. 

Not a single word is exchanged. 

It’s just Gon staring at Mito, Mito staring at Gon—the trembling of Gon’s hands becomes more obvious when he lifts his arms, outstretches them for Mito’s body, quietly asking for a hug. There’s hesitance in his, yet none in hers, because Mito is coming forward within seconds, fingers wriggling through his hair to tightly hold him close. 

Mito presses him into her, fingers reaching for every part of him—his hair, his shoulders, his spine and arms. There’s not a single sliver of skin that Mito doesn’t caress with every bit of mother’s love intent. Her lips brush against the crown of his head in a soft kiss. 

“My son.” 

Killua watches as Gon’s grip tightens around her, fingers digging into her shoulders and face smothering into her neck. 

He missed her.

Killua knows he missed her. 

“You’ve grown up so much,” Mito starts, voice wet, and she gives a soft laugh, pulling him away to take in his features more. Gon averts his eyes, still fidgety. “I’m so happy to see you again Gon, it’s been so long. You stopped writing.” 

Gon swallows roughly and nods, seeking to press back into her neck, and Mito lets him hide there once again. She runs her fingers through his hair, threading the thick locks gently. 

“You look lovely.” She says, and Gon chances a look up at her. She smiles, eyes crinkling into crescents. “My little Gon.” 

“I would’ve come back sooner—” Gon starts, the guilt in his voice strong, the dullness gone, but Mito shakes her head, pulling him away from her frame. 

Her eyes stare into his, unwavering. “You will _not_ be hard on yourself, Gon Freecss.”

Gon averts his eyes, looking away, just towards the front door of his house, and Mito pulls him in again, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“My little boy has grown up so much.” 

There’s so much softness to her words, repeated in disbelief. 

And then Killua hears it—

—A quiet laugh. 

It’s more of a giggle, breathless and airy and light. It’s warm and faint, muffled by his lips pressing down together to cover the sound. His eyes are crinkling into crescents, a near mirror image of Mito’s own features: nose scrunching cutely and cheeks bunching up.

That’s the most emotion Killua has seen on Gon since he found him. 

Mito’s expression crumbles, and then she speaks a quiet, hushed whisper. “Don’t you dare let me forget your voice again.” 

Killua hears Gon’s breath hitch, and the fervent nod he gives her, fingers wriggling into her dress and gripping the fabric so tight that it bunches up and stretches. 

It’s a little disheartening, to see Gon so emotive over Mito. 

Gripping her tight, holding her close. 

And yet he’d stepped away from _him,_ anxious to get away. 

He had chosen distance, and that’s what stings.

Killua had always known how to approach Gon. 

But _this_ Gon? This Gon is a mystery. This is the bright-colored, cheery boy he knew, and at the same time, isn’t. This is someone different, and yet the same altogether, and it’s weird. It’s weird to think about it like that.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when Mito’s hand reaches for his, her other hand tangled in Gon’s, and she’s pulling them along inside, abandoning her basket of dried fabrics, leaving the lone sheet on the grass. The house still smells as sweet as he remembers it: lilac and lime—faint and floral and fresh. It’s refreshing to smell after years of living in molded apartment buildings and run-down rooms. 

There are new items in the room. Some new throw-over blankets on the couch, fresh pillows. The table in the kitchen looks new, but maybe Mito sanded it down and painted it herself. She’s a craftful woman, after all. 

Nothing stops Gon from hugging Abe just as tightly when he sees her, and Killua watches as the wrinkles on Abe’s face scrunch further as a tear escapes her eyes. 

They were all worried about him. 

Though they don’t know of Gon’s disappearance, nor do they know of the Phantom Troupe—Gon had gone through extra measures, pulling down his shorts further to hide the giant spider tattoo on his outer thigh. 

Killua has yet to see the whole thing. Gon refuses to show it. 

“If I’d known you were both coming I would’ve fixed up something grander,” Mito starts, turning her back to them as she fixes up the kitchen and scrambles to prepare a meal for them, “How have you been?” 

The question is directed to both of them. 

_She thinks they haven’t separated._

“Alright,” Killua answers smoothly, one hand propped onto the table, resting his chin against his palm. 

Gon doesn’t reply to the question. 

Mito doesn’t comment on it. 

She hums and nods, opening the cupboard for another pot. “Dinner will take a while. Gon, _nene,_ you look so thin. What have you been eating?” 

Gon hesitates, eyes looking up at her. 

“Apples and sandwiches.” 

His voice is meek. 

Mito frowns, and then huffs loudly. “That’s not a meal, Gon.” 

His face cringes, and she pauses, cutting her words. Worry simmers in her eyes. 

“Go wash up, the both of you.” She says instead. “Figure out a sleeping arrangement while I make more for dinner.” 

“It’s fine, I can just—” Killua starts. 

“Nonsense,” Mito interrupts, shaking her head, “I cleaned Gon’s room every weekend and dusted everything waiting for him to come back home. The room isn’t dirty or anything—you’re both older but that wouldn’t be a problem, would it?” 

_That’s not the issue,_ Killua wants to say. 

He wants to comment that Gon and he aren’t exactly on buddy-buddy terms at the moment. 

“Killua, let’s go,” Gon says lowly. It’s taut and hard and toneless. 

Hearing Gon’s voice so emotionless—call his name so emptily—it’s odd. 

Despite that, Killua stumbles, choking on a hum of agreement and scrambling to stand. 

Their footsteps are quiet. 

Gon’s steps are different now—they’re gentle and soft. He steps with the ball of his foot, careful and calculated, measured. It makes Killua’s heart clench when he thinks about how or why that came to be. It’s no longer loud, careless steps. It’s no longer Gon. 

_So much of him is no longer Gon._

Seeing his room in the same state they left it though, _that’s_ his Gon. 

It spreads a warmth through Killua's body to see it untouched and perfectly preserved of Gon’s younger years. The bed is made neatly, the comforter spread over it and folded, and the rug has been adjusted to be straight. His desk is cleaned and organized, the beat-up laptop sitting there with its charger, screen shut and cover worn. 

The first thing Gon does is shut the window and close the curtains. 

Killua digs through the closet for the futon, exactly where they’d left it four years ago. 

He pulls it out, and it’s covered in holes—torn despite the cleanliness of it. 

“Uhm, Gon.” 

He doesn’t look over. 

“The futon is kinda stretching past its lifetime. I’ll go to town and buy another.” 

Silence. 

Killua bites in a sigh, turning to reach for the door. 

“Don’t,” Gon says abruptly. It cracks, and Killua turns. 

They’re staring at each other. Gon’s eyes are empty once again—empty and hollow and serious. His brows are furrowed just slightly. 

“We can’t—”

“It’s fine.” Gon’s voice is firm and flat. “We’ll just share the bed, I guess. Just go wash up.” 

There’s really nothing Killua can say. He’s surprised—not at all having expected Gon to allow him to share the bed. So the most he can do is nod and step outside, turning towards the bathroom just down the hall. 

Showering is fast. He lathers his hair in shampoo and washes off the sweat and grime as the soap in his hair absorbs. He shuffles through his thoughts and the developments of the last two days—the new circumstances. The new discoveries. He hasn’t had a moment to piece it all together. 

He has to tell Alluka and Nanika—they’d be happy to know. Definitely Leorio and Kurapika. Leorio is probably still working with the Hunter Association to find Gon. Killua hopes Kurapika is using his underground resources to find Gon, though he hasn’t contacted him in a long time either. Now that Gon is here, with him, Killua could tell him it’s okay now. 

_Kurapika shouldered a lot of guilt after Gon’s disappearance._

Quickly, Killua shuts the cold water off and steps out, drying off quickly. 

And that’s when he realizes he didn’t grab a change of clothes, mind too muddled with Gon’s words to grab anything other than himself out of the room. 

He ties the towel on his waist and steps out after checking the hall, long strides over to Gon’s room. 

One knock.

No response. 

“Gon?”

Nothing. 

Killua frowns, opening the door to step inside. 

_Gon must be downstairs with Mito then._

Killua shuts the door behind him, and promptly realizes he was wrong. 

Gon is standing in front of his mirror, shirt thrown off, craning his neck and turning his body to look at his back. He’s holding his hair with one hand in front of his chest, and his eyes are hard. There’s judgment brewing there, in that stare. Maybe it’s more of a glare. 

He follows Gon’s line of sight, and forces himself to inhale the punch to his chest—the breathlessness of it all. 

Gon’s back. 

The entire expanse of tan skin—it’s marked. 

There are scars of every kind. He knows them. Lacerations and tears and burns and spills. Killua can tell every single one apart—which wound was caused by a whip, or a knife, or a blunter, unsharpened object. He can tell where a cigar was put out on Gon’s skin.

He can see the large section traveling down his spine of wrinkled, red skin—mangled and disfigured. 

_Acid burns._

_They poured acid on his back._

The anger flares, and Gon realizes he’s not alone in the room—eyes widening—scrambling to cover his back. Killua watches as the strands of black hair fall and cover his bare chest, hiding the smaller nicks and scars there too. He can’t believe—can’t believe that they did that to him. 

“Suh—Sorry,” Gon says, and his voice is small as he struggles to get a grip. He swallows. “I’m gross, I know, people have told me.” 

_What?_

Vulnerability lies in his posture. He reeks of fear and self-consciousness. 

Killua doesn’t know what to say. 

The soft, supple skin he once knew, the tan skin he admired when they bathed together as kids—Killua had been slightly jealous that Gon’s body was unmarked and clean, a new slate—is gone. It’s completely gone. The glow of his skin and fat of his sides were replaced with slightly protruding ribs and a duller skin tone. 

“It’s—” Killua manages, sucking a breath. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about it. You should go wash up.” 

There’s a moment of silence before Gon clears his throat and nods. 

Killua is left in an all-too-quiet room, with the image of Gon’s scars imprinted in his head. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dinner is awkward. 

Gon freshens up and heads downstairs without Killua—though that was expected. Killua knows when dinner is done because Mito is calling for him, and he steps out carefully, shutting the door, heading down the old, wooden stairs towards the kitchen. 

Mito is placing plates at the table, and Gon is twiddling the placemat with his fingers, keeping his gaze down at the ceramic plate. A gentle hum, and a huff, and Mito is placing the plate of cooked dentex on the table, along with a salad bowl and stacks of bread. Mashed potatoes—avocado, pineapple, rice. 

Killua isn’t sure all of this will be finished tonight. 

Once they all sit down, the gentle mumbles and laughter die down, and Abe sits in front of him, Gon to his right and Mito to his left. They bring their hands together and offer their gratitude. 

He’s been praying for a long time now. 

And Killua knows he _should_ give gratitude for the meal, but it’s Gon’s name that rings in his head now. It’s a prayer for Gon’s health, for Gon’s journey to healing. Requests are fine—he knows they are. He slides in thanks for finding Gon again, too. 

_Gon, Gon, Gon._

_Everything is for him._

Killua opens his eyes to sneak a glance at him. 

Gon is sitting there at the table, eyes open, staring down at the plate, biting his lip and clenching his hands on his lap, bouncing his left leg silently. He’s not praying. He’s not really doing anything. Killua can’t discern whether there’s emotion behind Gon’s intent stare or not. 

It’s a stark reminder that Gon has changed. 

His heart clenches. 

_Gon isn’t praying._

Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. 

When Mito opens her eyes, she smiles: “Eat up, boys.” 

A smile of gratitude, and Killua reaches forward, cutting a piece of the dentex alongside rice and avocado. He can feel Gon’s stare on him, before Gon moves, meekly reaching for a loaf of bread and some salad. It takes a lot of effort for Killua to not frown throughout the meal. 

His portions are so small.

And he picks at his food, especially when Mito reaches forward and adds more rice and fish to his plate. Gon had merely stared at it, using his fork to play with it—turning and flipping the food in disinterest. Or maybe it was something more. Killua couldn’t tell anymore. He used to be so good at reading Gon. 

“Gon.”

Gon pauses abruptly, and Killua doesn’t miss the fear that flashes in his eyes. He nearly drops the fork, and Killua watches as he schools his hands back into a steady grip. 

Mito smiles. “Are you not hungry? You’ve barely eaten.” 

His brow creases momentarily, and he opens his mouth to respond before promptly shutting it.

“‘M not hungry, sorry Aunt Mito.” 

She frowns. “Did you both eat before coming?” 

Gon shakes his head. “It’s just a lot of food.” 

Mito’s gaze is confused. 

Killua understands her confusion, because they’ve eaten thrice of this amount before. But Killua is too nervous to eat more than he already has, and Gon has obviously been starved—the thin sides and slight protrusion of ribs he saw in Gon’s room was enough confirmation. Worry stirs in Killua’s chest.

“Is it okay if I go upstairs, ‘m tired.” Gon’s voice is meek. 

A nod. 

And Gon is standing quickly, excusing himself from the room. 

Awkwardness hangs in the air,

“I’ll—” Killua starts, pushing his seat back and pointing at the stairs Gon ascended. 

“It’s okay, Killua. You can go too.” Abe says, and she gives a hearty laugh. “You boys know each other well.” 

_They don’t, anymore._

“Thank you for the meal.” 

Mito smiles. 

“Rest well, the both of you.”

Killua isn’t sure they will. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Laying in Gon’s room is different than it used to be.

When they were younger, Killua would feel Gon press close and laugh—mumble something incoherent in his sleep and maybe even mumble Killua’s name. He used to find it annoying, when Gon would wrap around him, all limbs attaching and being impossible to shake off. 

It was always so _hot_ those nights. 

But now the cold bites at his skin, despite the blanket over his body. 

And Gon’s form is beside him, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

They both are. 

It’s hard to ignore the erratic beating of his heart when Gon is so close. 

It’s hard to figure out how to act around Gon, when Gon hasn’t given him a single hint on how to act. He’s been cold and distant, and Killua can’t place why. What should he do? What to do, what to do, _what to do?_ His thoughts are scrambled and his memory is a mess. 

All he remembers is four years of looking tirelessly, to the point of collapse several times. 

He’s found Gon now. 

_At what cost?_

“Why did you leave?” 

The voice pulls him from his thoughts. 

Killua looks over, startled. “What?” 

A tired sigh—irritated. Gon’s voice lacks any emotion when he repeats himself. 

“ _Why_ did you leave?” 

Gon isn’t looking at him. He’s still staring up at the ceiling, unmoving.

Killua frowns. “What are you talking about? I never left you.” 

Silence. No movement. 

Gon looks over at him. His expression is lifeless. Stony. Empty and vacant and judgemental and—

“Okay.” 

_Okay?_

He turns away from Killua, giving him his back, curling his legs closer to his stomach. Killua pulls himself up and reaches for his arm, gripping the warm, freckled skin. Gon’s body reacts negatively to the touch, shrinking away and jolting, as if burned—and he’s quick to shove Killua’s hand away. 

“Don’t.”

“What—”

“It’s just not what I remember happening. Drop it.” Venom drips from his words. The poison inches and seeps into Killua’s heart like a thick goop—this, _this_ he has no immunity towards. Gon’s voice seethes in a way Killua didn’t know it ever could. 

Killua drops it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Killua,” Mito says, hand reaching out to hold his own at the table, sitting down beside him, “What happened?” 

His heart stops. 

“What?”

It’s almost like the birds stop chirping. Everything ceases at that moment. He dreaded this. Dreaded Mito’s question. What does he even say? He can’t lie to her. He can’t lie to her like this, when they’re in her home. He should—He should spare her the details, right?

“It’s obvious something is different. You boys were so close and now…” She trails off. 

Killua hesitates.

_Should he? Should he not?_

A smaller voice in his head says he should.

He keeps his voice quiet. “Gon and I were separated four years ago. He went missing—”

Mito sucks in a sharp breath. “What—”

“—and I finally found him,” He talks over her quickly. “I don’t know what happened to him.”

This is not the type of conversation to have before breakfast. Gon could wake up at any moment and come downstairs and overhear, and then what? 

“You only just found each other again?” She’s prying, but it’s all with good intent. Mother’s worry. 

Killua nods solemnly, before springing up. “I never stopped looking. For him, I mean. I really never stopped.” 

“And you don’t know anything about what happened?”

A shake of his head. 

Mito leans back on her chair, slouching into it and sighing. Distress colors her features, and she rubs her temple, shutting her eyes and pressing her lips together. There’s a schooled expression, and then, it breaks. It cracks and crumbles uselessly, because Mito covers her eyes with her hands and lets out a sob, and the distress rises tenfold within Killua.

“I knew it—” She stumbles with her words, her shoulders quake, “I knew I shouldn’t have sent him.” 

“Mito,” Killua tries, shaking his head, his own eyes brimming. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

She shakes her head. “I sent him, knowing his father, knowing the dangers.” 

_She’s not listening to him._

“I practically sent my own son to get killed.” She takes a breath. “I let him write his own death sentence.”

“That’s not true—” Killua tries again, voice quivering. 

A shaky laugh, and she hunches forward. “It—It is. He’s not the same, Killua. I know you know, but there are so many differences. A mother knows. Whatever happened to him _hurt.”_

It takes a lot of willpower to not say it’s his fault, that Killua should’ve looked behind, that Killua should’ve made sure Gon was still following him. At the end of the day, it’s his fault no matter how you spin the story. He should’ve checked, he should’ve listened. He should’ve been more careful, when his best friend’s life was on the line. 

It’s all his fault, and Killua still hasn’t stopped blaming himself for the events of four years ago. 

“Gon is hurt, but he’s healing,” Killua says, voice imploring for Mito to listen. “Him being here is helping. You’re helping. Gon set out to do the Hunter Exam to find his father, I don’t think you could’ve ever stopped him. Once he sets his mind on something—”

“—he’s determined to complete it.” Mito finishes softly, and she gives a choked laugh, tears falling down her face. 

Killua isn’t sure if he can hold Mito, or comfort her physically, but he tries anyway—reaching out to hug her, and she complies—hugging him tightly and pressing her face to his shoulder. The tears stain his shirt and soak it, but Killua doesn’t mind, and he tries his best to undo the damage he’s done. 

Until he feels another presence in the room, and not through his nen—Killua has long figured out Gon doesn’t ever leave Zetsu, and it’s both worrying and surprisingly, but Killua is also used to feeling eyes on his back, and Gon, no matter the years that pass or the things that happen, is no exception. 

Killua taps Mito’s back, gathering her attention, and she pulls away, wiping at her eyes and smothering a hiccup before looking up and noticing Gon’s figure looming at the archway. His hair is a mess—tangled and wild, and the bags under his eyes are more prominent than yesterdays. 

“Gon—” Mito gasps softly, standing and taking long strides to him. Standing in front of each other, Gon surpasses Mito’s height only slightly, but they’re still at eye level, and Mito fixes a strand of loose hair behind Gon’s ear gently, smiling warmly at him. 

“Did you get some sleep last night? Your eye bags haven’t improved.” Her fingers caress his face, and he leans into her touch, just slightly. 

It takes him a moment to find the words. 

“I’m fine. I rested, Aunt Mito.” 

His words don’t sound completely dead, at least. 

Mito gives him a broken smile, and Killua watches as she pulls a brush from the drawer. 

“Do you mind?” The question is spoken tenderly. 

Gon shakes his head, turning around. 

Killua is reminded of the scars hiding just below the shirt and sweeping hair. 

“Your hair is so pretty,” she says, moving the brush down his hair to untangle it. She starts from the bottom and works her way up, until Gon’s hair is sleek and smooth, untangled and so, so pretty. 

Killua can’t help but stare as she turns Gon around and presses a kiss to his forehead. He gives her a small smile, shutting his eyes. 

As she puts the brush away, she looks between Gon and Killua. “Why don’t you boys go into town for some clothing? I saw the hamper. Neither of you has anything besides what you came in—and neither of you fit in Gon’s old clothing anymore.”

He can see the way Gon stiffens. Killua watches from the corner of his eye as Gon swallows and goes rigid, wriggling his hands together and furrowing his brows. He struggles to come up with a response. 

“Well?” Mito asks. 

Gon looks at Killua. 

Every time Gon’s eyes meet Killua’s—

—They’re empty. 

There’s nothing there.

_What happened?_

“Okay.” 

Gon doesn’t even give Killua a moment to gather his thoughts or process the development of events, but he’s stepping out the door and down the path to the town without Killua, and Killua is forced to look at Mito with an awkward smile, scrambling after Gon soon after. 

Hurried steps down dirt, where puffs of it rise. And the sun’s heat is an uncomfortable thing, heating his skin in ways he always disliked. Gon is walking at a slow pace, and Killua catches up soon enough, moving to walk beside him even if it means walking on the grass and not the actual path. 

Gon makes it obvious he doesn’t want him near. 

It kills him.

Even in this nice weather—the birds are chirping and flying in the sky, the waves crash so clear on the shores of Whale Island, Killua can see them from the top of this hill, the sky is clear and there’s not a single cloud in sight—it doesn’t manage to lift the sinking of his heart when Gon shoves him aside and disregards him. 

He should try; try to make conversation. 

“Gon,” Killua says, and he can’t help that he utters his name so softly—a sweet melting on his tongue, “The weather is nice today, isn’t it?” 

No response. Gon doesn’t even look at him, eyes set ahead, pace set even and head held high. 

Maybe Gon didn’t hear him—maybe he’s lost in his thoughts, maybe he could try again. 

He feels nervous. 

“Gon—”

“I know what you did.” 

Not a single glance spared. 

Killua’s eyes widen in shock. Confusion blares in his head. 

“You manipulated me to come with you. It wasn’t necessary.” 

Of course, Gon knew. Gon wasn’t stupid—he never was. 

His heart falters and beats all at once. It picks up speed and slows and Killua struggles to come up with a response. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The words are genuine. Killua didn’t want to have had to manipulate Gon. It was a shallow move on his part. 

Gon looks over then. Spares him a look and a stare and then looks back down the path without a word. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Gon!” 

Gon startles. Killua tries to hide his smile. 

“It’s good to see you, kid! It’s been so long!” 

That’s the eighteenth person to stop them since they got to the town. All just to greet Gon. The first time it had happened, Gon had startled so bad he whipped around and gripped the woman’s wrist. The third time, he’d jumped—pulled from his thoughts and had tensely nodded. The tenth time, he’d still startled, confusion lacing his features. 

The furrow of his brow had only deepened the longer the walk into town had progressed. 

“Killua, right?

Killua gives a small smile. “Hwen?” 

The man grins. “The one and only. It’s so great to see you both—you especially, Gon. We were real worried about you, Mito hadn’t stopped rambling about your lack of letters for three years now. Glad to see that you're back.” 

Gon opens his mouth and shuts it. His eyes look distant. 

“Thanks.” It’s a lame reply. 

Hwen gives a hearty laugh. “I’ll leave you two boys alone, you look busy. But it was real nice seeing you both again. We all missed you!” 

And as Hwen turns his back and travels down towards the dock carrying a crate, Gon’s frown deepens further. 

_Had he not been expecting that?_

“There are two shops we can go in,” Killua says cooly, “Which do you prefer?” 

His voice pulls Gon from his thoughts, and he looks around, long hair sweeping down. He hadn’t bothered to pin it up. 

“That one, I guess.” 

The closer shop of the two, with the door open, and they both step inside. 

Gon looks around, and Killua sticks by his side as Gon absentmindedly looks at the shelves. Killua picks up a loose-fitted tank top, and some basketball shorts. Gon only continues to scan the aisles. One after another he sifts through all the articles, and the shop wasn’t that big to begin with. 

“There aren’t any long sleeves.” His voice is careful and mumbled. 

Killua’s head whips to look at Gon. “You want long sleeves?” 

Gon doesn’t look at him, but he nods. 

_It’s a start, isn’t it?_

“Hey,” Killua calls out, and the woman at the cashier looks over. “Do you have anything long-sleeved?” 

Her forehead creases in thought and she hums loudly, scanning the room. 

“Anything long sleeve is out of season, but we should have something left over in storage.”

Killua opens his mouth to reply, but Gon is faster. 

“That’s fine. If it’s no trouble.” 

She smiles warmly. “I’ll be right back.” 

Gon makes his way to the counter, and Killua places the items he picked there, taking out his wallet from his back pocket. 

“I’ll pay.” 

That gets Gon’s attention. 

“That’s not necessary.” 

Killua glances at him before sliding his card across the counter, ready for the cashier to take. “It isn’t. But I want to.” 

Gon doesn’t reply. 

But he can feel his stare on him. 

The intensity. 

And then, just like that, it’s gone. 

“I found one last long sleeve, I think it’s your size! You don’t look too big—”

The woman pauses when she catches a full look at Gon so close. He stares at her, waiting. She adjusts her glasses, breathing in. 

“Gon?” 

Surprise colors Gon’s features. 

“You’re Mito’s son, Gon Freecss, right?” She asks, leaning forward. “Oh, it’s such a pleasure to see you again. I’m so happy that you’re okay. You gave us all a scare when you didn’t write back. Your silence was loud.” 

Shame fills Gon’s features. 

“No, no—” She scrambles, laughing nervously. “Don’t worry about it. We’re happy that you’re okay. I’m glad to see you here again.” 

The only thing Gon can offer her is a quiet “Thank you.” 

She laughs, hiding her smile behind the palm of her hand. “You can have the clothes for free. As a prayer for having you back.” 

“That’s not—” Killua starts, but she raises her hand.

“It’s fine. I’m relieved. This one is on the shop, don’t worry.” 

Gon doesn’t say anything. But Killua notes how confused and distant his eyes are again. He looks a little lost, a little stuck in his head—his thoughts are probably jumbled. Any harder and steam will probably come out of his ears. Killua gives the woman a warm smile.

As she packs their things into a paper bag and slides the card back to Killua, Killua speaks: “Have a nice day then. Thanks.” 

She offers another smile and waves.

They step out, and Gon follows behind Killua, staring at the ground as they walk. He’s definitely lost in his own thoughts. Killua has to keep looking back to make sure Gon is still keeping up with him.

The trek back to Mito’s house is silent. 

For a long time. 

Gon isn’t interested in any of the other shops. He doesn’t want to look at the other clothing shop. He doesn’t care about the refurbished boardwalk for the dock, or the newer shops that have opened—he doesn’t even eye the ships that come in with merchandise. He just starts walking back in the direction of Mito’s home and makes himself as small as possible. 

And the crease on his forehead hasn’t relented. 

It’s only worsened. 

They’re stepping on the path through the forest when Gon finally speaks up again. 

“You don’t have to be nice.” 

Killua’s head goes blank. He turns to look at Gon. “What?” 

“You don’t have to pretend to care about me. You left.”

The flatness of Gon’s voice is scary. 

“I never stopped caring about you, Gon.” Killua frowns. “I never stopped looking for you. I never left.” 

_Just what idea does Gon have in his head?_

Gon stares at Killua. Killua stares back.

He studies his features: his eyes and lips and brows and jaw. 

Gon is biting his lip, and his brows are furrowed. There’s something in his eyes—maybe he’s reliving a distant memory. Does it have to do with the Troupe? It probably does. Anger simmers just beneath Killua’s skin. It’s all their fault that Gon is like this—that he feels like this. 

_Like what?_

Killua struggles to really pinpoint in his head what’s wrong with Gon. 

He’s shaky and distant and cold. He startles at his name being called, he has scars all over his body—just like Killua used to have. He’s skittish around attention: touch makes him nervous. He bristles at every little thing Killua has to say. _Just what happened?_

_Does Gon feel like he wasn’t missed?_

_Is that what’s it?_

Everyone missed him.

Fuck, they all missed him so much. 

But Gon’s expressions are telling: he thinks otherwise, no matter how many people say it. 

_Gon feels like no one cared._

The thought comes and forms in Killua’s mind abruptly. It completely shifts his way of thinking. That had to be it, right? It explains his actions, it explains his reactions—his words and his gaze. It explains so much, and just like that, Killua is shoving aside everything for this one thing. It might even be a bad idea.

He reaches for Gon’s wrist. 

The pad of his fingers tingle when they brush against Gon’s skin, and Gon’s head snaps to Killua, eyes wide and confused, and he nearly bristles before Killua is talking over him. 

“We’re gonna go explore this forest now.” 

He doesn’t give Gon a moment to protest, pulling him off the dirt path and into the shrubs—into greenery. 

Killua is tired of Gon’s frown: of Gon feeling like he wasn’t worth caring for. 

“Let go—”

“I won’t.” 

Gon sucks in a breath. 

Maybe Killua is being too pushy. 

_Is he forcing Gon?_

_On the other hand, he really wants Gon to see._

The forest is bright and vivid, a green that reminds Killua of Gon’s old attire—his ridiculous jacket and stupid shorts. The sky breaks through the branches of tall trees with ease, and the leaves provide shade as they continue walking, a rustling sound as the wind blows and brings with it the sea’s lingering scent. The overgrown grass and moss tickle his legs as he walks.

Bunnies approach them. Bunnies and squirrels and foxes—they pause and stare before approaching carefully, usually skittish animals are mere putty around Gon. They clamber around him, brushing against his legs and pawing at his knees for attention. It makes Killua smile, to see so many animals being so gentle with Gon. 

“A good hunter always attracts animals.” He says softly. 

Gon’s gaze hardens when he looks over at Killua. “I’m not a hunter.” 

Killua arches an eyebrow. “You are. And these animals—they care about you. You breathe this island, Gon.” 

He stares at Killua before looking back down. 

Slowly, Gon squats down and reaches out, and one of the bunnies sniffs his hand before nuzzling its nose into his thin fingers, ears flopping cutely and flickering up at the slightest of sounds. The foxes yip for attention and the squirrels rush around the tall grass. 

This isn’t the animal Killua is looking for, though. 

There’s a much more specific animal he has in mind.

Closer to Gon, an animal that means more to him than any other. 

“C’mon, let’s keep moving.” 

The animals scatter when they start their pace again. 

They don’t even have to walk long—it’s hard to miss him.

The giant foxbear trotting at the edge of the forest.

Gon goes rigid, pulling back on Killua’s grip. 

He stills so abruptly that Killua is pulled back from the force of Gon’s stop—with Gon staring ahead, fingers quivering and mouth agape, rushed puffs of exhalations. Killua tightens his hold around Gon’s wrist, pulling him forward once again, practically dragging him through the grass.

“No—” Gon chokes out, trying to pull back his hand, “Let’s—let’s go back.” 

_Gon needs this._

“Maybe… maybe not right now—” Gon struggles against his grip, and Killua doesn’t let go. 

It’s the first time Killua has heard Gon’s voice sound anything other than monotonous with him. He sounds nervous. He’s unwilling.

Another tug, harder. “Kih—Killua—” 

_Gon needs Kon to accept him, too._

The foxbear pauses in its steps, turning around, and Killua steps forward as Gon steps back. Gon’s breathing picks up, and he chances a look between Killua and Kon, once and twice and thrice, before keeping his eyes on Gon. Kon’s steps are loud and thunderous—they shake and crunch the dirt beneath them. 

Faster—faster and faster steps and Gon sucks in a loud breath, managing to tear his hand from Killua’s grip and taking another step back, eyes wide in fear. He doesn’t move, doesn’t leave, doesn’t speak a single word or utter a single syllable. His line of sight won’t leave the huge animal in front of him. 

Kon slows. He slows and comes to a stop right in front of Killua and Gon, staring down at them with a blank expression. His nose twitches, ears straighten, and he huffs, sniffing the air in confusion. It must be Gon’s scent—it’s not the same anymore. It’s different. 

Gon _used_ to smell like flowers and sea salt. 

Now, Gon smells of death, anguish, and sadness. 

It’s a familiar scent. 

None of them move. Killua doesn’t dare step forward and run his fingers through Kon’s thick fur. He lets Gon take his time, who pants almost audibly, taking shaky breaths as he stares at the animal he spent his childhood with. Seconds bleed into minutes—the wind dies down and the atmosphere feels tense. 

Slowly, Gon raises his hand, roughly swallows, eyebrows creased in worry. His hand comes up and outstretches just barely, lifted just enough to reach Kon’s head, if he chose to lower it. 

Instead, Kon shrinks back just slightly, and hurt flashes across Gon’s face, fingers curling back into his palm. He grimaces, averting his gaze to stare at the ground in shame. Killua tries to comfort Gon, hand coming up to grip his shoulder, but Gon brushes him off, eyes hard.

And then Kon’s head is coming back, approaching slowly, fitting right against the grasp of Gon’s hand. 

Gon gasps, head snapping back to Kon—and the sour mood melts away, eyes wet and lips quivering, and he gives a shaky laugh, quiet in every sense of the word. Relief floods in, evens out his tense shoulders. Every bit of hesitance disappears as Kon flops onto the ground beside them, turning over on his back and urging Gon to rub his stomach. 

The smile that creases his features is beautiful, Killua thinks. 

Happiness will always be the best look on Gon’s face. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Within the next two days—Gon gets a little better.

It’s not a huge improvement, nothing drastic, but the monotonous voice shifts into something lighter. Gon finds space to still fit in some dryness around the edges when he speaks to Killua, but with Mito, his voice is softer—gentle and timid. And sleeping together is certainly less tense, although the bags under Gon’s eyes still haven’t faded. 

In fact, they only seem to deepen. 

Gon doesn’t bring it up—and he would certainly bristle if Killua mentioned it, so he doesn’t. 

But Killua is hoping that he can soothe Gon tonight, in a different way. 

“Where are we going?” Gon’s voice is tight as they walk down the forest.

The crickets are chirping loudly, and the sun has long dipped beneath the earth’s soil—hidden from sight. The moon glows bright and full in the star-filled sky, a canvas of darkness speckled in white dots. The aurora spreads throughout the sky, a splash of blues and purples and pinks. He hears Gon give a soft gasp. 

Killua looks behind him, a grin on his lips. “You don’t remember where we first saw the stars together?” 

Gon doesn’t reply, mesmerized. 

The clearing is wide open.

It doesn’t look too different. From the edges of the forest, grass sprouts and covers the expanse of dirt. A large tree towers into the sky, and the river resonates gently, the sound of running water filtering into the night air—crisp and clean. Killua can almost smell the smoke and feel the warmth of the fire from the last time they were here, four years ago. 

Killua sets the blanket on the ground: spread it out with his hands and sits, patting the spot beside him. 

“C’mon, sit down.” 

He’d made sure to borrow a large enough blanket from Mito—nothing small, so that Gon would have enough space away from him if he wanted. Even if it stings, Gon’s comfort is so much more important to him. 

Gon eyes the blanket, hands cupping his elbows, before slowly stepping forward and taking a seat next to Killua. It makes Killua’s heart beat a little faster—Gon’s sitting closer than he expected. It’s not as close as he would’ve liked, or as close as he would’ve come four years ago when they were still _best friends,_ but it’s close nonetheless. 

Shoulders a foot apart, Gon curls up into himself, knees against his chest, arms hugging them. Killua sits sprawled out, both hands behind him and propping him up, legs crossed. Chances are, if they were going to sit and watch the stars, they’d be here a while. 

It’s quiet between them. 

Killua chances a look over at Gon. Gon is staring at the sky with doe eyes. 

There’s more light in those eyes. 

Killua turns back towards the sky to hide his smile. 

“Did you like dinner?” Killua asks, avoiding looking at Gon. He doesn’t want to pressure him more. 

There’s a brief moment of silence before Gon manages to come up with anything coherent.

“I—” He stumbles, and Killua fights the urge to look over at him. “Yeah. It was nice. Mito’s cooking is always nice.” 

Killua smiles up at the sky. “Good.”

The crickets chirp.

“How have you felt these last days?” 

This time, Gon takes even longer to respond. 

“It’s nice being back.” His voice teeters on monotonous. 

Killua reels back on the questions—Gon clearly doesn’t want to answer them. And his intention was to make Gon feel better, not defensive. Killua bites his lip and continues to stare at the stars. 

Seconds filter by. They bleed into minutes. Killua feels a little antsy. 

“Why did you want me to come back?” 

The question is sudden. It’s unexpected, and sudden, and not at all something he expected Gon to ask, if anything at all. Killua’s head snaps towards him, and Gon is staring at him too. They’re close, physically, sure, but there’s a wall between them. And it’s not just something that was caused by time. 

_Reassure him._

_You need to reassure him._

Killua smiles softly. “I wanted you to come back at least once. You said you hadn’t seen Mito. And look, everyone missed you.” 

Gon stares at him. There’s something swimming in his eyes, Killua can’t quite place it. There’s a question that must be lingering at the tip of Gon’s tongue. It dampens the mood, a little. And Killua doesn’t want that—doesn’t want Gon to dwell on some negative thought. 

He shifts closer until their shoulders brush together. Gon bristles at the contact. 

“Look up at the sky, there’s something I wanna show you.” Killua’s not sure why he whispers the words. 

Gon complies, though he leans away from Killua’s body. 

And Killua has never liked astronomy. He was well-versed in mathematics, and science, and psychology. He knew more about literature than he cared for, but Earth sciences were never really his forte. He could reteach his extensive lessons on the brain and the adverse effects of solitude, he could recite sonnets and do mathematical calculations in his head. 

Stars? Not really. 

The void of space? The unknowns? That was scary. 

So he never bothered. 

Regardless, Killua points to a cluster of stars in the sky, and Gon looks over, following his hand up the painted canvas. A stream of stars that led to a group of them—bright and sparkling and white. They twinkle and demand attention, somehow standing out from the rest. 

Killua picks those. 

“The best friend star is out tonight.” 

He catches Gon look over at him, making a noise of confusion. 

“What?” 

A smile laces Killua’s lips, and he laughs, looking over. “You didn’t know? It’s a star you can only see from Whale Island—”

“I think I’d know—” Gon’s voice is flat. 

Killua brings his index finger to Gon’s mouth to shush him, nearly touching his lips, and grins. “Let me finish! It’s a star you can only see from Whale Island, because that’s where Gon Freecss and Killua Zoldyck hold precious memories.” 

He chances a look over at Gon. 

The aurora dyes his skin—previously pale, now a little tanner—a gentle blue and purple hue. His eyes are wide, staring at Killua with a slightly open mouth, lips parted in an “o” shape, and Killua can see the stars painted delicately in Gon’s hazel eyes. He can see constellations in his freckles. Seconds feel like hours. Gon promptly shuts his mouth and averts his attention towards the river, fiddling with his hands. 

But Killua doesn’t miss the small smile dancing on Gon’s lips as he tucks a strand of black hair behind his ear. 

_It made him smile._

And Killua takes another leap. 

He points to another random point in the sky. The star he’s pointing—it doesn’t matter if it’s named, or if it has a story. He doesn’t care. This—this is all for Gon. 

“And look!” He exclaims, voice bleeding into a huff of laughter, soft and tender, “It’s the happiness star. It’s rare to see it.”

Killua looks at Gon. 

Gon is staring at the sky. 

“Any time you do, happiness will come your way.” 

The words are uttered with such care and tenderness. More than Killua had intended. 

As long as Gon knew happiness—knew that he had a place here, with him and Mito and Kon, with Leorio and Kurapika and Bisky and Alluka—he’d be okay. Killua is sure of it. For all the time that Killua has spent desperately looking for Gon, four years and ready to tackle even more, he’d realized one thing. 

That Gon wasn’t his moon. Gon was his star:

Not simple, not easily attainable. 

A challenge. 

Stars are far away—Gon’s disappearance made him so far, far enough that Killua didn’t see his light anymore. But that was okay, Killua would find him. 

Gon gives a quiet laugh, hidden away and for no one else to hear.

Yeah—yeah. 

Gon was his starlight. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


That night—the mood between them is lighter.

Gon takes to bed first, bidding Mito and Abe goodnight, stepping quietly upstairs to his room. And Killua is washing up, switching into his change of clothes and stepping inside Gon’s room carefully. One of the lamps is on, the one on Gon’s side of the bed. His form is facing away from Killua, turned towards the open expanse of the room. 

Killua smiles. 

He should tell Leorio—tell Leorio that he’s found Gon. Call him, so he can relay to Kurapika the information. 

Digging his phone from his pocket, he switches it on and digs through the contacts for Leorio’s number. One ring, two rings, three rings. No response. He sighs. 

The old man must be sleeping. 

So then—

—Maybe he should call Bisky. 

He misses Alluka’s voice. And Nanika’s too. Yeah. He really misses them.

It’s been a long time since he broke them out of their home. A really long time. Killua is calling Bisky’s number before he even realizes when he’s doing, and it’s her tired voice that comes up on the line, grouchy and complaint-filled, grumbling to herself.

“Killua, you either must be mad or dying to have called me at this hour, haven’t I taught you a woman needs her beauty sleep—”

Killua talks over her. “I found him.” His words are breathless. 

It’s a little different—thinking it, and announcing it aloud. 

He hears Bisky suck in a breath. There’s shifting and clambering on the other line. 

“Gon? Your friend? The one you were looking for?” 

A chuckle. “Yeah. We ran into each other. He’s sleeping right now.” Killua takes a seat at the edge of the bed. It creaks under his weight. 

Bisky gives a laugh. “I’m glad you found him, then. I’m assuming you were calling to hear about—”

“—About Alluka, yeah. How is she? And Nanika? I hope they’re alright.” 

“If you’d let me talk,” Bisky grumbles, and Killua smiles, apologizing quietly. “They’re both fine, and they both miss you a lot. Alluka does complain about your absence often, she says she misses your scent.”

“They’re sleeping right now?” Killua asks. He can’t help it—his voice is giddy.

_He loves his sisters so much._

“Yeah,” Bisky says, “But anything you’d like me to relay to them before I hang up on you? I want my beauty sleep.”

Killua pauses, biting back a smile. There’s a lot he wants to tell them. He fiddles with the comforter between his fingers, thumbing it and squeezing it in his grasp. 

“Tell them,” Killua starts, “Tell them I miss them a lot. And tell Alluka I’ll come back soon, I don’t know when but—I miss her too, tell her I’m gonna give her the biggest hug when I see her.” 

“You’re disgustingly cute. A gem, really.”

Killua snorts. 

“That all?”

“Yeah,” Killua says, voice soft. “Thanks for picking up at all.”

“Alright, I’ll tell them in the morning. Goodnight, Killua.” 

She doesn’t even give him a chance to say it back—the call clicks and ends. With a quiet huff of laughter, Killua tosses his phone aside, and crawls to his side of the bed, careful not to awaken Gon. He undoes the covers and gets under the sheets, turning away from Gon’s body and facing the wall. 

The body beside him radiates warmth. Killua doesn’t dare indulge in it. 

He doesn’t dare. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I can’t stay long.” 

It’s the first thing Gon says to Killua in the morning. 

Not ‘good morning’, or ‘hey’, or even the ignoring-thing they had going on for the last couple of days. Gon is standing by the window, staring out of it. It’s the first time he’s undone the blinds since they arrived. Light pours into the room, filtering through the glass and brightening everything. 

Killua’s heart stills at an alarmingly deadly rate. 

“Huh?” 

“I need to go back,” Gon says. The frigid coldness is back in his voice. Just like when Killua first found him. “I have a mission coming up, I can’t miss it.”

Everything comes crashing down on Killua. 

_Everything._

The light in Gon’s eyes—it’ll fade if he goes back to the troupe. Gon had gained some semblance of life with him, with _them,_ here on Whale Island. His eyes had shone, they’d brightened from the dark desolation. Killua had found Gon in. If Gon goes back, there's a very high chance Killua will struggle to find him again—there’s a good chance that his eyes would lose their life. 

Killua will lose Gon, after only just having found him a few days ago. 

His throat closes up, his lungs spasm with the urge and scream to breathe. His lips quiver—fingers tighten. 

_Find your voice._

“Can—” Killua stumbles, struggling to form the words. “Can I go? With you?”

_The light will fade._

Gon turns. He stares at him. Blank, judging. Empty and cold. An abyss of nothing; darkness. He doesn’t utter a single word. And then:

“Do whatever you want.” 

Relief floods Killua’s system. 

And at the same time, destruction follows ensuite. For as quickly as it had come and flooded, it had also destroyed everything. A tsunami of sorts, within Killua. Gon has been so cold and apprehensive around him. Killua is trying, he’s trying so hard. 

But Gon wants nothing to do with him, right? 

Gon is mad—he’s obviously mad at something. 

_At you,_ the voice in his head rings. 

It’s a choking poison. 

It reaches and squeezes the life of his heart and constraints everything until he’s near suffocation. 

For all the touching Gon allows of others, he bristles around Killua. 

He shoves him away, pushes him away—tries to hide away and smoothly cover up his distancing. Killua notices it every time. It’s really hard not to, not when the only other memories Killua has are of Gon and him being so, _so_ indescribably close, to the point of flustering him. 

Killua breaks. 

“I know you want nothing to do with me. I’m sorry, Gon.” 

Gon looks startled. He turns quickly, and with no grace, form swinging and coming off-kilter as he shifts to fully face Killua. 

“I’m trying—” Killua breathes a choked sound. “I’m trying my best, I only want to see you be alright. That’s all, nothing else.”

Gon’s mouth opens, and then shuts. He looks confused—startled, bewildered. Anxious. 

Killua bites his lip, taking a deep breath. “I’m so sorry I failed you, Gon.”

An aversion of his gaze, Gon looks away, tightening and untightening his fists. 

“I said you can tag along,” he grits, turning completely to look out the window. 

The words are firm and dry—lackluster in emotion, so much so that Killua is pushed back by the force of it all and sucks in a breath, shocked, and shuts his mouth. Gon doesn’t move from the window or acknowledge him. They both stand in a suffocating silence. Killua stares at a spot on Gon’s back. 

“If—” Gon starts, but he shakes his head. “Mito knows I’m leaving this afternoon. Pack if you’re coming along.”

Killua swallows.

Of course, Mito already knew. So then, it means Killua was the last one in on the information. 

It’s fitting, he supposes, since Gon seems to outwardly hate him so much. Killua forces himself to steady his breathing and relax his posture. He needs to steady the beating of his heart, to not take Gon’s words so personally—

_—It’s not his fault._

“Alright. I’ll, uh, get ready.” 

Gon says nothing. He doesn’t turn when Killua sighs, doesn’t turn when Killua opens the closet, he doesn’t turn when Killua opens the door to change in the bathroom. 

The smell of breakfast is sweet in the air: he can smell pancakes and syrup and chocolate, eggs and waffles and toast.

And yet all it does is make Killua feel sick to his stomach. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The goodbye to Mito and Abe goes smoothly, though Killua doesn’t miss the expression on Mito’s face. 

It’s hard to miss the sadness hidden behind her eyes, smothered by the hazel and honey color. Breakfast had been a happy thing, though as time passed, it sombered, and by the end of it, Killua found it hard to eat even more than a plate worth of food. 

Gon hadn’t touched his food much either. 

Killua can’t say he’s surprised. 

But Mito had been gentle, praising Gon for eating, and smiling so tenderly: standing and moving around the kitchen for some bags to put snacks and foods in. She’d insisted, with careful mother’s persistence, that they take some food for their journey, wherever that was.

She’s unaware of the meaning of the large spider tattoo sitting mockingly on Gon’s thigh, a large eleven inked into the spider’s body. She can’t possibly know that Gon is going on another mission, possibly to kill people—her sweet child, now a killer. And it was all Killua’s fault. 

—Her touch is always so soft. 

She wraps her arms around Gon first, cradling her fingers on her cheeks—cupping them and angling his face up so he can look to her eyes. Killua doesn’t miss how Gon struggles to hold her stare. He averts his gaze, but presses closer, hiding his face against her chest and slowly bringing his arms to wrap around her.

There are whispers, between them. 

Killua doesn’t hear what’s exchanged, but he sees her lips move, he sees Gon nod. He watches as Mito threads her fingers through Gon’s long hair and brings her fingers to palm at the back of his head. Gon melts into her embrace further, and Killua catches the smile Gon struggles to fight from forming on his lips.

And when she pulls away from Gon, pressing a kiss to his forehead with a smile and unshed tears, she turns towards Killua and pulls him into her grasp tightly.

“Please look after him.” The words are uttered so softly, Killua is afraid they’ll shatter like glass.

He tightens his hold on her.

“I will.” 

A smile forms against his forehead, Killua can feel it, as she presses a kiss there, ruffling the strands of his hair and keeping him there for a moment. The Freecss family has always been one of good-nature, with physical touch being their love language, regardless of intent. 

_Killua missed it, a lot._

He can feel Gon’s stare on him. 

The cold eyes prying into his soul.

Killua finds he doesn’t mind. 

She pulls away, eyeing them both and giving a sigh. 

“Neither of you better fall out of touch with me,” she chides, fixing a strand of Gon’s hair behind his ear.

When neither of them replies, she bristles. “Got it? I want letters from _both_ of you, or not even grandma will keep me from finding the both of you.” 

A chuckle bubbles past Killua’s lips, and he nods—but Gon’s expression is grim, and he looks hesitant. Killua knows exactly what he’s thinking. 

Gon doesn’t want Mito to see him like this. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The voyage back to Jappon is quiet. 

Gon doesn’t speak to Killua, and Killua figures out they’re going to Jappon only because Gon mentions it to the captain of the boat they’re getting on. He doesn’t bother giving Killua the details. He doesn’t spare Killua any knowledge on what he’s doing or what the mission consists of. 

_They used to always share everything. Every bit of knowledge._

The notion makes his throat close up. 

The weather had been bright and clear—skies empty and spared of clouds, the ocean a sparkling, glistening blue-green. Killua had watched sea animals he didn’t even know the name of pass by them, he’d wished Gon were beside him, so they could exclaim together and fawn over it. 

Maybe, if they hadn’t been torn apart by Killua’s mistake, Gon would’ve challenged him to see who could pet the giant fish swimming beside the boat first, and Killua would’ve laughed and called him ridiculous, just before agreeing to do it. A small smile forms on Killua’s lips as he reminisces the memories. 

“We’ll have to sleep in a cave or something.” Gon’s voice startles him, and Killua jumps, turning quickly. Gon gives him a bored expression. 

They’re nearing the harbors of Jappon. 

The boat creaks and groans under their silence. 

His eyes stare into Killua’s. “I hope that’s fine with you.” 

Confusion spikes within Killua. “Why?” 

Killua watches Gon, the way his gaze averts and he seems embarrassed. “I don’t have a place to stay. I usually sleep in caves or in trees.” 

He furrows his brows. “I, uh,” Killua begins, struggling to find his footing. Gon doesn’t know, of course he didn’t. “I have a place in Jappon.” 

_That_ makes Gon look over. Surprise colors his features—something different from his blank stare. 

“Since when?”

The boat docks at the harbor and the bells chime signaling their arrival. 

“I was looking for you, and uh, since I never stopped, and my next client was here in Jappon, I thought I’d be here a while and leased a little apartment.” 

Gon’s eyes harden. They darken and his lips press together flatly. 

He doesn’t respond, and walks past Killua, off the deck. 

“Okay.” 

The word stings more than it should. 

_What is he doing wrong?_

_There’s something he’s not accounting for here._

Birds cry shrilly and squawk in the air as Killua runs down the harbor to catch up to Gon. The smell is distinct, here in these harbors. It’s almost like Whale Island, but different. It doesn’t smell quite like home. The sea smells of a stronger, more pungent salt, and the scent of fish wafts the air, with barrels and crates of them being lifted by men and women alike towards the town. 

Jappon was much bigger than Whale Island, but Killua is lucky to have found the apartment he did. This island was chock full of residents—full of rich culture and history. And with so many people, came a smaller availability of housing, so yeah, Killua counts his blessings quite often. 

Gon’s hair is picked up again. The long strands are odd to look at. No matter how often Killua stares at Gon, he finds he can’t quite place him with the long hair. It’s different. And it’s unsettling. Something about Gon’s hair being so long claws at Killua’s insides and makes him feel anxious. 

He can’t quite place why. 

“So?” 

Killua looks over, hands in his pockets. “What?” 

“Your apartment. Where is it? We’re going there aren’t we?” 

It should be pathetic, how quickly Killua’s heartbeat picks up. 

“We are,” he replies cooly, “It’s a ten-minute walk from the harbor, just off the center of this city.”

“Okay.” 

Killua’s heartbeat slows just as quickly. 

_Gon doesn’t care._

“The city is nice at night.” Killua tries to make conversation. “There are lots of lights, and the ocean is always calm. We can go eat out, if you want—like we used to at Heaven’s Arena.” 

When Gon doesn’t reply, Killua bites his cheek and feels the anxiety grow. 

It’s obvious. Gon doesn’t want to talk. It hurts and stings and burns, and yet Killua swallows it all. 

They pass by the market stalls and the shops. People bustle around them, and Gon looks uncomfortable, gripping the fabric of his hood tighter and hugging it tighter into his frame. The spider tattoo is hidden: it must be uncomfortable with the current heat of the island—Gon has it draped around him, he’s practically clinging onto it when the weather is easily above thirty-five degrees. 

As they near his apartment, Gon finally opens his mouth. “Who’s Alluka?” 

Confusion draws onto Killua’s features. He turns towards Gon, but Gon is looking ahead and not sparing him a glance. 

Killua sucks in a breath. “You were awake?”

“I’m a light sleeper,” Gon says blandly. 

Silence. 

The seconds tick by as they walk. Their footsteps are silent against the asphalt. 

“So?”

“So?” Killua parrots, and then it clicks. He scrambles to respond. “You—you didn’t get to meet her. She’s my little sister. After you went missing, I remembered about her and got her away from my family. She’s with Bisky right now, and my other little sister, Nanika.”

“Oh.” His voice is lame. “I didn’t…” it trails off. 

“You never mentioned having two little sisters.”

Killua gives a nervous chuckle. “It’s… a really long story. If you want, I’ll—”

“We’re here.” 

He looks forward, toward the steps that lead up to a small apartment complex. It’s a pathetic thing, really. The building walls are crumbling, and the stairs that lead towards the entrance are cracked and decaying with overgrown moss. But Killua had needed something low-profile, and this was as low as it’d get. 

“How did you know—”

“It smells like you.” Gon points out carefully. “And you took out your keys.” 

Cheeks growing warm, Killua averts his sight. 

He’d been so caught up on maybe filling Gon in, the chance of telling him what he’s been up to, on the prospect that maybe Gon would open up too. 

They take the steps up towards the building. The complex is only three stories, and it has two rooms per floor. It was ridiculously small, and ridiculously cheap on his wallet.

“I’m on the third floor. The room to the left of the stairs, c’mon.”

There’s no elevator in this apartment. But the view is nice—the staircase is open, letting them look out towards the ocean not far from them. It’s one of the only perks in this shit-hole, Killua thinks. Sometimes, he liked to settle on the stairs and listen to the radio as he stared at the sea. 

Gon follows behind Killua. He keeps his distance, but Killua doesn’t miss his wandering eyes, and feels the pressure of Gon’s stare when he begins to unlock the door. He steps aside, letting Gon come in first, and watches as Gon looks around. The couch is pushed into a corner, and the kitchen is small and run down, running on gas. 

“Sorry for the mess, this place is shit.” He excuses, rubbing his nap and closing the door with his foot. “But we have access to the rooftop, it’s a nice view of the stars.”

Gon pauses in front of him. 

He’s staring at something. 

Killua peers over at him and realizes what exactly Gon is staring at. 

_The photograph._

Oh.

Gon picks it up with both hands, staring down at the thing—its pretty brown frame, the crisp condition of the photograph. It was the only thing Killua kept meticulously clean and in mint condition. It was the only thing he _cared_ about maintaining in such good condition. 

Killua walks closer to Gon. “I asked Leorio for a copy, after you disappeared.”

No reply. 

He catches the slight tremble in Gon’s hands, before Gon places the frame back onto the table rather quickly, setting it down with a little more force than necessary. He looks around, taking in everything. An exhale escapes him, and he takes careful steps forward. 

“There’s only one bed, so, uh,” Killua starts, rubbing at his nape and stepping past Gon into the kitchen. “I can take the couch here in the living room.”

Killua searches the cupboards, skimming through what he does and doesn’t have to occupy his thoughts and hands. He can’t—he can’t allow himself to think about what Gon will say, about whether Gon will decide _this_ is too much of a hassle and just up and leave. 

“It’s your house,” Gon says flatly. Killua turns and catches Gon sitting at the kitchen bar, staring at him intently with furrowed brows. “You take the bed.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you take the couch.” 

“I’ve slept in much worse spots.” 

The words are chilling. 

Killua’s heart stutters. 

A soft puff of incredulity escapes him. He doesn’t want to think about that. _Don’t, don’t, don’t._ Don’t think about what has happened in the past four years—the scars. The marks and the hostility and the emptiness. It was all Killua’s fault, all his and he just—

“We can share the bed.” Gon amends. 

Killua spares a glance at Gon, heart beating fast against his ribcage. 

Gon averts his gaze. “We shared my bed. It won’t be different.” 

Relief sparks within Killua’s chest, and he gives a small smile, nodding. “Okay. That’s fine.” 

After a beat of silence, he chances speaking up again.

“Are you hungry? We ate most of what Mito gave us, but I can make some sandwiches with the ham that’s left until I can chance to go to the market tomorrow morning.” 

A disinterested hum. 

Killua sets to work regardless. 

Gon can eat some; he needs to eat more. 

And as Killua cooks, he runs over the events in his head. Finding Gon, going back to Whale Island and seeing Mito and Abe and everyone—helping Gon see he was missed. A part of Killua is sure that Gon still hasn’t fully realized the extent of his disappearance and how it affected _everyone._ Now, they’re in Jappon and Killua isn’t even sure when Gon’s mission will be and—

“Gon,” Killua starts, trying to find the right words. He cuts the sandwiches into half triangles as he speaks. “When are you due to leave for the mission?”

He doesn’t get any response. 

Killua sets down the knife, turning around to look at Gon.

His blood freezes. His heart stops.

Gon is dragging a small knife across his skin—down the flesh of his arm. He stares at the sharp object, dazed, and Killua watches as the skin dimples and leaves a light streak from the tip of the knife. His heart struggles to keep up as he stumbles forward, hands shaking.

_He can’t help it._

His hands reach and rip the knife away from Gon, breath hurried and shallow, holding it to his chest, eyes wide. 

There’s a sickening feeling in his chest, rising up his throat. 

_He can’t help the shaking of his form._

These things shouldn’t scare Killua.

He’s seen worse. He’s done and _been done_ worse. But Gon? Seeing Gon like this? He can’t. He can’t bear to watch Gon drag a knife against his skin, down his intermediate antebrachial vein. He doesn’t want to think about the blood that will leak if Gon punctures his perforating veins. 

“What—” Killua breathes heavily. “What do you think you're doing?” 

It rips Gon’s attention to him. Gon stares back, before turning away, averting his gaze to the right, towards the wall, and covering his mouth with his left hand. 

“Nothing.” He mumbles. 

Killua exhales. He doesn’t recognize this knife. It’s not from his house, not from Mito’s either. This must be Gon’s personal knife—it has to be. The knife is small, and the blade is sharp, Killua can tell. It’s much sharper than a regular knife. And Killua realizes it must be Gon’s, because one of the sheaths wrapped to Gon’s thighs is missing a knife. 

The urge to throw up washes over him rather quickly.

What was Gon thinking?

How long had he been running the blade against the anterior of his arm? How long while he was next to Killua? How long on Whale Island? How long before they encountered each other? His thoughts race.

Slowly, carefully, he sets the knife back down, and it gently clinks against the countertop. Killua slides it towards Gon, making his intent clear, and Gon looks between his knife and Killua, before inching forward and taking the knife, slipping it into its sheath. 

He can feel a headache coming. 

Killua rubs at his temple as he turns, setting a plate of sandwiches in front of Gon.

“Here,” he says stiffly. 

_It’s not Gon’s fault._

_Don’t take this out on him._

“Oh,” he says lamely. 

Killua swallows down the bile. He can taste it. He hates this. 

Gon reaches for a sandwich, taking a small bite from the bread and ham.

“Your question.”

He looks up. “Huh?”

Gon presses his lips together. “What did you ask?” The words are flat. Gon doesn’t like repeating himself—his words become frigid. 

“Oh.” Killua stares at him. “I was asking when you left for your mission.” 

Silence. 

The seconds tick by.

Gon doesn’t eat his sandwich, or touch it. He seems to struggle with himself before replying. 

“In two days.”

_Will Gon return? Return to him?_

“I’m not sure how long the mission will take. Maybe a week.”

A sharp inhale. 

Killua picks up a sandwich and chews on it to keep himself occupied. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?”

He nods. “As long as you come back safe. That’s what matters.” 

Gon’s eyes harden. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Good God. 

Killua wishes Gon would let him accompany him on this mission. 

But Gon has been more than silent on the details of it, and any mention of it makes him bristle and harden his eyes—makes him look away and ignore Killua for a good portion of the day. It doesn’t stop Killua from worrying what the Troupe will have Gon do, or what the contents of the mission entail. 

It only makes the feeling worse. 

Gon is shuffling on his boots, his long hair picked up into a high ponytail and hidden under the fabric of his hood. His gloves are on and he adjusts his shorts, hiking them up higher on his hips, and Killua catches more of the spider tattoo becoming visible. 

It makes his stomach twist and churn. 

It almost mocks him—his failure to Gon, and what happened. 

Killua’s throat seizes up.

How many missions has Gon done in the past four years? How much blood has been spilled? Has he stolen? Has he killed innocents? What has he been doing, what has he been doing, what has he—

He swallows roughly and massages his neck, averting his gaze. 

Killua is standing at the edge of the kitchen, shifting his weight from one foot over to the other absentmindedly, holding a small bag of sandwiches. The plastic crinkles in his hand as it swings from his movement, and as soon as Gon is straightening up, Killua clears his thoughts. 

“Gon.” 

Gon doesn’t acknowledge Killua’s voice. Either he doesn’t hear him or doesn’t want to.

Killua’s eyes harden. His expression becomes serious, and he doesn’t mean it, but a little bit of bloodlust seeps out into the room and drenches the mood in dread, when Killua thinks about Gon going on this mission alone—about Gon getting hurt, about someone hurting Gon, about, about—

_Gon will be alone, right? All alone. He was all alone, too._

Almost as soon as the bloodlust seeps out, Gon snaps his head to Killua and bristles, taking a step back, hands gripping his knife sheaths and eyes darkening. 

His eyes are blank and his mouth is a straight line. He stares at Killua, legs crouched, ready to jump away if necessary. Killua feels _sick,_ he scared Gon. Gon was afraid, afraid of the bloodlust and him, and Killua scrambles to reply, opening his mouth.

“Gon, I’m sorry—”

“What?” Gon asks, his voice is clipped, and he slowly forces himself to stand again, fingers trembling as he removes them away from the sheath. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“I don’t want your apology. What?” 

Killua takes a deep breath. “I’m going to step forward towards you, okay?” 

When Killua’s right foot takes a step forward, Gon’s eyes shoot down. His hand is trembling. His eyes are blank but Killua can smell the fear. God, what did they _do_ to him? He takes another step, lifting his foot slowly and touching down on the tile food with the ball of his foot.

“I made you sandwiches, so you can eat.” Killua keeps his voice soft to make up for the bloodlust. 

_God, he fucked up bad._

Gon is trembling. 

_What if he fucks up his mission now? He’s shaken._

Gon doesn’t reply. He stares at Killua, at the footsteps coming closer and the hand with the bag of food. He eyes Killua’s movements carefully, as if Killua would come forward and strike him, or hold him down, or release more bloodlust, and he looks ready to _bolt._

“You released…” Gon grits, trailing off. “You released bloodlust for _that?”_

Killua stammers. “No! I didn’t. I’m sorry.” 

It grows quiet. 

Gon reaches out, grabbing the sandwiches, and his fingers brush against Killua’s own—it feels like static. Killua’s nen flares up, and he feels the electricity run up his arm. 

Averting his gaze, Gon turns, and Killua stomps down on the urge to touch Gon’s arm, grab it and pull him to a stop. Instead, he calls out to him again.

“Gon.” 

He turns. 

Empty eyes. 

Killua can feel the cold ocean water wash over him. A draft of cold air. Chills fill his arms and travel up his spine. 

“Be careful. Please.” 

There’s an expression on Gon’s face that Killua can’t read. A blank stare with something more stirring beneath it. Gon lets out a breath, teetering on exasperated, and he turns, the hood fluttering with the force of his turn—his hair seeming to almost float. 

Killua stares at Gon’s receding back, left with nothing but worry.

He’s left in silence as Gon opens the front door, and it clicks shut.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


One week. 

_Eight full days._

Killua is alone for eight days in an apartment that now holds the memories of Gon’s ghost. Gon is in every corner of this small house—the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom. He’s peering out the window or scaling out the bedroom window to reach the rooftop instead of taking the stairs outside the bedroom. 

The days had passed slowly. So painfully slow. Killua couldn’t find the energy to travel into the city for new items. He couldn’t find the energy to tidy the house, maybe sweep the dust he’d seen collecting in the pantry and furniture. Days were spent pacing, chewing on his thumb and biting the inside of his cheek.

Anxiety claws within Killua.

Eight days is a lot. 

Day two, Killua thought maybe Gon had finished the mission already and was on his way back.

Day four, Killua began to become uneasy, rereading the newspapers and scanning news portals online for any recent crime. 

Day six, Killua had paced—unable to read or focus, unable to sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, making more sandwiches for Gon, planning some more meals, thinking of places to take Gon to relax. Gon had mentioned not seeing any of the cities the troupe had visited—stuck in the slums. 

_Killua wanted to show Gon the nicest parts of every city for every bad part he saw with the Troupe._

Day seven, Killua had half the mind to make a missing person’s report. Had Gon left? Had Gon decided this wasn’t worth the trouble? That Killua was easier to leave? That it was easier to just leave everything behind and leave _them?_ Panic hums underneath Killua’s skin, more and more persistent as the seconds bled.

And then on day eight, while Killua is sitting on the couch with his knees to his chest, skimming a book boredly to get his mind off Gon, there’s a thud at the door, and it clicks open. Killua’s hands tremble, and he stands on weak knees, coming forward right as the door opens. 

Gon is standing there.

_Oh, God, Gon is here._

His hair is tousled and a mess—strands of black falling from the ponytail. Blood soaks his shirt and hood, and his hands are limp by his sides, staring into nothing. Killua’s heart sinks, catching the empty look in Gon’s eyes. The hazel swirls into darkness, with no light in sight. 

He looks exhausted. 

So, so tired.

There are bags under Gon’s eyes that are worse than Killua’s own. 

“Gon…” Killua trails off. 

_What to say?_

“I’m back.” He says blandly. “I’m gonna rest.” 

Killua reaches out, letting his fingers deftly hold Gon’s skinny wrist to stop him.

Gon doesn’t even struggle like usual. 

He submits to his hold, completely. Killua turns him slowly. Gon doesn’t fight it. He just doesn’t. He stares into space. Killua lets his thumb soothe the skin of Gon’s wrist in repeated motions. His heart sinks and shrivels as he catches the red staining Gon’s hands. 

His hands are rubbed sensitive and raw, skin red and the faint color of blood only makes it look worse. 

_He’d scrubbed his hands viciously._

Killua isn’t sure how long ago. 

“You can’t go to bed like that. You’re all covered in… grime.” 

Gon studies his face. “I’m tired.” 

Killua walks him to the bathroom without a word, carefully pulling him along. Gon doesn’t fight the grip. He just follows him, head cast down. Killua doesn’t bother to shut the door, and he can faintly hear the rain beginning to pitter against the bedroom panes.

“I know. But you’ll feel more refreshed if you wash off.” 

The bathroom light flickers on, and Killua pulls the bath curtain open, sitting Gon on the toilet seat top as he fixes up the bath—lets the cold water wash down the drain before the hot water comes through. The drain locks with a click, and the water rises, filling the tub, and Killua is quick to add the soap and suds the bath.

Gon stays silent. 

“C’mon, get in. I’ll help.” 

Gon stares at the tub, and then at Killua, before nodding and moving his arms slowly, tugging off the bloodied hood. Killua turns away and busies his hands at the linen closet, opening it and counting the towels, listening as the clothes shuffle off and Gon dips into the bath. He doesn’t move away until he hears the splash of water and Gon’s body dip into the tub.

He sets two towels on the toilet set, white and fluffy and the best he has. 

The water has turned a pastel red since Gon has entered. The bubbles reflect red. 

“I’m gonna wash your hair, is that alright?” Killua asks, reaching for the shampoo. 

Gon nods. His hands are in front of his body; they look tense, but he undoes his ponytail regardless. The hair falls, all knots and clumps, matted and crusted with blood. Killua reaches for water and puts some on his hair, grabbing the brush and working from down to up to undo the mess. 

_It sort of reminds him of when he was caring for Alluka._

A click of the shampoo bottle, Killua squeezes some into his hand and lathers it before rubbing it into Gon’s hair. He warns him beforehand, feeling Gon tense under his hold, before relaxing more as Killua rubbed his fingers into his hair and threaded it through the long strands. 

He pretends he doesn’t see it. 

The scars. 

This close, Killua can see them. The big ones all over his back. But also the smaller ones. There are scars and wounds that line Gon’s chest and arms. They travel down to his stomach and vary in length. Killua wants to reach out and trace his finger on every single wound inflicted—apologize profusely. 

Instead, he speaks into the silence. 

“I’m going to wash your back, alright?”

A hum. 

It’s not the response Killua had expected. But Gon looks relaxed, leaning more into his touch, lips parted just a little and his eyes closed. Killua grabs the soap and drizzles it into a soft towel before working softly in circles. Gentle motions, cleaning his back and chest, stopping every once in a while to dip the towel into the water and wash it off before continuing the process again. 

As Killua washes off the shampoo with a small cup of water, Gon speaks. 

“I spent a long time wondering if I should come back.” 

Killua’s heart stills. 

A tremor runs up his spine and down his arms into his fingers. It makes his legs weak. Gon had _considered_ it. 

“I’m glad I came back.” 

It’s a quiet, tired admittance. A confession laced in exhaustion and relaxation. Killua knows this. So he doesn’t press. He lets the words hang in the air. He just continues to wash Gon off, until Gon is limp in the shower, peacefully asleep, the bags of his eyes so, so prominent that it kills Killua to his core.

His heart aches, in a not-so-pleasant way. 

It feels worse than ingesting poison. 

_Don’t think about it._

Killua grabs a towel, squeezing the water from Gon’s hair carefully and toweling it down, wrapping it up into a turban. As the water drains, he pats down his body and debates on whether to stir Gon from his sleep or not. Is it okay for him to be doing this? To dress Gon and carry him to bed? 

Would Gon be mad in the morning? 

Killua isn’t sure—but he finds he doesn’t care.

He wants Gon to continue resting. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Another month trails on. 

For the most part, it was peaceful. 

Gon spent his time up on the roof at night, staring at the stars. And sometimes, he’d fall asleep there, where Killua would have to carry him down and set him into the bed. Gon would shift slightly in his grip, furrow his brows, or sometimes he’d squirm away at being grabbed. 

And the light in his eyes had gotten better. It wasn’t completely bleak or empty. And sure, Gon was still apprehensive around him, and cautious, and he’d bristle at the slightest touch from Killua—but it was fine. As long as Gon was _here,_ and okay, that was fine. 

_Gon was better._

_That’s what mattered._

As Killua prepares lunch, Gon’s footsteps are barely audible against the tile floor. Killua still wonders what they did to him to make him walk like that. He always walks with his socks on—but he’d taken to stealing the clothing from Killua’s closet after Killua had reassured him that it was okay, time and time again, to just take from the ridiculous pile of outfits he rarely wore. 

“Hey.” Killua stirs the rice and flips the meat with a pair of chopsticks. “I’m making rice and meat, I can boil some broccoli if you want.” 

Gon is eating a little more too. 

It makes Killua’s heart soar, to see him eat a plate from a quarter to a half to nearly the full thing. He’d nearly thrown a celebration when Gon had quietly slid an empty plate back to him just two days ago, just a few raspings of food left: a few grains of rice, or one or two pieces of cut meat. 

“That’s fine.”

Killua smiles as he stirs, giving a huff of a laugh. 

“I’ll start boiling it once I get this rice settled.” 

He turns towards Gon, ready to make a joke, but Gon’s eyes look hesitant, and he’s hovering, staring at the kitchen counter, and then over at Killua, before averting his eyes.

“You alright?”

“I have to go on another mission.” 

The mood dampens considerably. 

The happiness melts away into an ugly thing. 

Killua nearly drops the chopsticks right there. He doesn’t—but he has the urge to. Gon doesn’t move from his spot at the edge of the kitchen, unsure of what to do. Killua takes a deep breath as the voices fill his head, as he remembers what Gon said to him the last time—that he’d considered not coming back _at all._

Fear claws within him and scratch the walls red. 

Shaky hands reach forward and turn down the dial on the stove. He sets the gas at low, before turning to Gon. 

He swallows thickly. 

“Gon, you don’t have to go.”

_Gon, you won’t come back. Gon, you’ll just leave._

“You don’t need to continue to do missions for the Phantom Troupe.”

_That wasn’t the right thing to say._

Gon’s eyes harden. 

He’s bristling, clenching and unclenching his fingers, brows furrowing. The light in his eyes fades.

“I need to go on a mission.”

“No, you don’t.”

“The Troupe will get suspicious—”

“They won’t—”

“—another mission for myself. I used to do missions once a week.”

“—that doesn’t matter.”

Gon grinds his teeth. The room goes silent. The stove hisses. Killua feels the familiar sinking of his heart. 

“I’ve slowed my pace.” He grits. The rage is there, hidden within a thin veil. “They’ll know something is up.”

“It’s none of their business what you do, Gon.” Killua reasons. He wants to reach out for Gon and shake his shoulders—he wants Gon to see to reason. 

He shakes his head, black hair swishing in the air and strands fall and cover his eyes. “Not me. They’ll get suspicious.” 

_This always happens._

The tension gets thick when the conversation becomes about the Troupe. It always does. 

_It always spirals._

“There’s nothing they’d get suspicious of, Gon.” Killua tries again. “The Troupe is free to do their own thing unless there are meetings.” 

Gon clenches his hands into fists. “Not for me!” He raises his voice, nearly shouting. “I used missions to get my mind off everything! They’ll know something is wrong!” 

Killua stills. 

“If I did missions, they wouldn’t hurt me. They took care of me afterward.” 

Killua feels like throwing up. All at once, the nausea washes over him.

“Gon—”

“I don’t want your pity—” Gon looks up, seething. “Don’t pretend to care. You _never_ cared.” 

“Yes I did!” The bile in his throat rises fast.

“You don’t get to just waltz back here and pretend you know what it was like.” Every word drips with poison. “I. Don’t. Want. Your. Pity.” 

These are the longest sentences Gon has spoken to Killua since they reunited. 

Killua feels the anger rise, as well. 

He’s tired.

He’s so tired.

And he’s trying, he really is. 

He’s giving it his all. Everything he does, he does for Gon. 

The voices clamor. 

Killua grinds his teeth. “I _do_ know what it’s like. I’m not giving you pity.” 

The words are punctuated. 

“You think I don’t know torture, Gon? I lived it longer than you ever have.”

It’s a low blow. Killua shouldn’t be mentioning the scars. But the tension is thick, so thick that Killua feels like suffocating. He’s huffing, struggling to catch his breath, face flushed and fingers shaking, and Killua is sure he’s baring his teeth from the anger of it all—the frustration. 

Everything stills. 

Quietly, Gon speaks up again. 

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

“What—”

“Don’t!” Gon seethes, “Don’t keep interrupting me! It’s not like you know what it’s like to be abandoned by the person you loved the most!” 

He wasn’t supposed to say those words. 

It was all in a fit of anger.

Killua can tell, by the regret that washes on Gon’s face. 

Gon huffs, fingers trembling. 

Killua doesn’t know what to say.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be abandoned by your best friend.” 

Gon just—

—Killua was the person Gon loved the most. Past tense. 

Gon had trusted him. Gon had loved him and trusted him and cared for him: they were best friends, and they were supposed to be inseparable. And this. Now this. The abandonment hangs over their head and it’s the subject of their arguments, the reason for every argument they have, and Killua had never been able to get a reason out of Gon for his anger, but _now…_

_What kills the most is that he never left to begin with._

“Gon—I never _left._ I keep telling you but you don’t believe me and I don’t know what you want me to say!” Killua stumbles in his words, form shaking, eyes stinging. “I never stopped looking and I never believed you were gone. I kept looking Gon, fuck, I never stopped, I really never did. I exhausted every resource and, and—”

Killua chokes on his words. 

“I just wish every time it was me they’d taken. Not you. I was used to it. I still am. I could bear the pain. I’d take it all.” 

Gon’s eyes harden. “Killua—”

Killua talks over him, aggressively rubbing at his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It should’ve been me, not you. You matter so much to me. I’m sorry, Gon. I can’t say it enough and—”

“Yeah. Okay. Enough.” Gon speaks loudly over him, interrupting his words. His teeth are gritted and brows are furrowed. He runs his fingers through his hair and tousles it in annoyance. “One apology would have been enough.” 

_‘I’m sorry’_ wasn’t the word he was looking for. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, but saying it over and over, it seemed right. It seemed like it was the only thing to bridge the gap between the word he was actually looking for, and his guilt. Otherwise, there was no way. He didn’t know. 

The stove hisses. 

The meat is still sizzling. 

Killua can’t find it in him to turn around and flip it. 

Gon stares at him, with eyes emptier than before. 

He opens his mouth, shuts it. Opens it again. 

He decides on his words. 

“Don’t bother boiling anything. ‘M not hungry.” 

And just like that, Gon steps out from the edge of the kitchen, receding toward the bedroom once again. And Killua is left to stand in an all-too-large space, with a sinking heart and fretting mental state—forcing himself to swallow and face the stove once again. 

He’ll just…

He’ll cook the broccoli regardless. And plate it. And if Gon doesn’t want any that’s fine. He’ll just store it in a reusable container and stuff it in the fridge. He can heat it later. Or he’ll just… cook something else for Gon.

The bedroom door shuts. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gon leaves for his mission.

This time, he leaves without a word. 

Killua’s hands trembled, watching Gon pack up and get ready to leave—he’d done so with minimal effort, with little care. His hair was messily picked up, and his hood was on sideways, off-kilter just slightly, hanging off his shoulder, and he’d grabbed the pack of sandwiches Killua had quietly prepared without even looking up, putting it away and taking his leave.

He had to watch Gon disappear, again, for a third time now, without any notion of when he’d return. 

Killua’s thoughts surge. 

One by one, he places his feelings at the forefront, while Gon isn’t there. 

Their argument was bad. 

It was really, _really_ bad.

He paces the apartment in circles. The things Gon had said still continue to run through his head. He picks apart every syllable, every letter, every word: he runs through meanings and connotations and denotations, and he still can’t come up with an explanation. 

Gon felt abandoned. 

He felt left behind and discarded, and Killua’s heart clenches in his chest. His best friend thinks he left him behind, and the damage was so big that no matter _what_ Killua said, it didn’t erase the pain from Gon’s features, or his stance, or his posture or dark eyes or quivering hands. It couldn’t hide the grit of his teeth or the shadowing of his eyes. 

It’s going to be a slow process to healing, isn’t it?

A long one?

Voices clamor and ring and whine. 

He can’t _fix_ Gon, but he can help him heal. Killua can keep reassuring him. Gon has to want to get there himself, but Killua can be his pillar to lean on. 

And then he thinks about the Phantom Troupe.

Gon’s scars. 

All of them; he can tell which they mended and which they didn’t, from the scabs and the way the wound healed. He can tell when the wound was made, based on how faded it is. He’d seen more of the scars the longer he’d tended to Gon in the bath. As days went and the quiet admonishment had turned into waiting in the bath, Killua had gotten to see more hidden wounds—had slowly worked the courage to trace his fingers on the marred flesh.

The thought makes him grind his teeth and grip his hands into fists, a tremor running through his body. 

Gon is perpetually in Zetsu—Killua hasn’t seen him come out of Zetsu. When he sleeps, it stays up. And in the bath, it wavers. It hadn’t fallen completely, but Gon had been relaxed enough to the point where it loosened and Killua had felt a taste of Gon’s power. 

It was strong. 

And Killua’s bloodlust must have been too strong for Gon, even the little that had leaked out. It had startled Gon to the point of shaking— _fuck,_ Killua has to be more careful. If Gon is in Zetsu so often, he’s sensitive to everything.

_And he’s hiding from something,_ a voice rings.

Killua shakes his head. 

They hurt Gon.

They hurt him, and he’s _damaged._ He’s hurting. He rarely smiles—Killua misses his smile. He misses Gon’s laugh. Mito could make Gon laugh, but Killua couldn’t. The most Killua got was a quiet hum. A stare. A nod or a breathy huff. Not a full-blown laugh, like the one he remembers. 

Gon would throw his head back and laugh loudly—unrestrained. He’d laugh and clutch his stomach and squeeze his eyes until tears streamed, and he’d wheeze and plead for Killua to make him stop laughing, for him to have a moment to catch his breath. Killua misses the ring of his laughter in his ears. 

He misses Gon. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The door jingles. 

The knob is twisting and turning hesitantly, and the door creaks open slowly. 

Killua doesn’t wait a single second. 

He’s up and out of his seat, reaching forward and pulling the door open. And Gon is standing there, hand still clutching the doorknob, eyes downcast and form hunched; small. He’s hiding into himself and shaking and his lips are pressed into a thin line.

He opens his mouth—

—And instead sucks in a breath when he takes a good look at Gon’s body. 

It’s worse than last time. 

The words die in his mouth. 

Gon’s hair is unkempt and dirty, flat with grease and grime. His face is covered in dirt, and there are hints of a bruise forming too, just at his jaw. His clothes are bloody and worn, but at least not torn, soaked in crimson and smelling thick. It’s painful to breathe—the smell warm and damp and disgusting. It’s the blood. The blood is making him smell like that. 

And god, Gon’s body. He’s wounded. There are cuts on his legs, traveling up the expanse of his thighs and slashed near the spider tattoo. His torso is all red, with purple bruises and large cuts. His eyes skim over it: it’s not deep enough to be of substantial worry. Gon’s arms have nicks too, and Killua wonders just what the hell happened.

There’s dry blood splatter all over him. 

This time, when Killua reaches for Gon’s hand, he intertwines their fingers instead of grabbing his wrist. He squeezes Gon’s hand gently, as comfortingly as he can, and pulls him inside, shutting the door behind him. Both their steps are quiet as they walk to the bathroom, and Gon hasn’t spoken a single word. Killua’s a little worried.

As Gon sits on the toilet seat cover, staring blankly at the wall, Killua opens the sink cabinets and digs around. His first aid kit sits covered in dust, and he pulls out the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls, setting it all down on the free space of the sink. The items clatter and clink together. 

“We need to wash off the grime before we can disinfect the wounds. Can you take off your shirt?” 

Slowly, Gon nods, and he pulls off the hood, and then his shirt, and Killua turns towards the bath quickly, turning the water on and letting it run into a warm temperature. Gon gets in, after removing his shorts and socks, and Killua helps him clean his back as gently as possible, rubbing off the sweat and the blood, and watching it pool at his feet in a pinkish hue. 

There’s so much blood seeping off Gon’s skin. 

The grime comes off with some rubbing. Killua works carefully in washing his hair, removing the grease with the shampoo and conditioner, letting it sit and watching as Gon stared blankly at the wall. When he turns off the faucet, Gon towels himself off, changing into the soft shorts he’d bought at a store, and sits right back down on the toilet seat, waiting. 

Killua opens the first aid, grabbing the alcohol, and he swishes the solution inside. It’s still good. He opens the bag of cotton balls and readies the gauze, before kneeling in front of Gon, taking his hand gently. For a moment, all Killua does is stare. There are more scars now, and they’re taking over Gon’s skin. 

He hates every bit of it. 

He wishes Gon’s skin had remained tanned and unblemished, painted only with his natural freckles. 

“This is going to sting a bit.”

Gon stares. And then he goes rigid, all at once, blinking and pulling his lips to a flat line and trying to remove Killua’s hands from him. His breath quickens, and his movement is frenzied: shaken. 

“It—” He stumbles, swallowing his words. His voice is scratchy and hoarse. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Killua frowns. 

“Gon, you need to take a little pain to heal, the wound will reopen and may get infected.” 

He makes a noise of distress; it’s a quiet and small thing. 

Barely audible, but Killua catches it. 

And yet, Gon stills, after moments of fighting his grip. He swallows again, eyes nervous, staring intently at the alcohol and cotton ball as if it's the bane of his existence. 

Maybe it is. 

Maybe it reminds Gon of things he doesn’t want to remember. 

Killua works as quickly as he can. 

He drenches the cotton balls in rubbing alcohol and works into every cut and wound. Gon grits his teeth, his nose flares and he scrunches his eyes, and a small noise of pain escapes him. Killua apologizes gently every time. Gon’s fingers tighten at the side of the seat, muscles flexing from the force of it all, and Killua wishes nothing more than to reach out and kiss each individual scar, softly reciting the little incantation Gon had taught him years ago: 

_Heal, heal, frog tail._

Gon had said Mito always told it to him, when he was younger and scraped his knee, or came back with scratches. 

It takes longer than he wished, because Gon is covered in wounds. His arms, his torso, his back. He thought his thighs were the most damaged part, but then Killua sees the cuts covering Gon’s feet, and his throat closes up. 

“Gon, what happened?” He breathes. 

Gon’s shoulders screw up as Killua disinfects the soles of his feet. “I had to walk through glass after it exploded.”

The words are clipped. 

Killua doesn’t press the matter. 

Gon lets Killua rub the topical ointment on his thighs and arms, but he’d bristled at his torso, taking the little tube and shakily applying it himself. As he did that, Killua quietly bandaged whatever needed bandaging, and reached for Gon’s pajama shirt, handing it to him. 

Calloused fingers deftly touch Killua’s own rough ones, and Gon takes the shirt, pulling it on over his head and taking his hair out from the shirt. 

“C’mon, I’m sure you're tired,” Killua says, “Let’s sleep.” 

Hazel eyes stare at him. 

They’re blank. 

“What about this mess?”

Killua shrugs. “A tomorrow problem.” He reaches out for Gon, outstretching his hand. “Let’s go?”

Hesitantly, Gon nods and reaches for his hand. 

Butterflies explode in Killua’s stomach, and he smiles, helping Gon up and navigating the mess of discarded cotton balls on the floor, walking into the bedroom. 

The stars in the sky twinkle, visible through the apartment window. Killua stares at them, before hearing the rustling of sheets and seeing Gon pull the covers over him. Killua would lose him in the comforter if not for the sweeping black hair always spreading like ink against the white bedding. 

Killua sits on the edge of the bed. 

“You were gone for two weeks, I was worried.” 

He hears readjusting. A pat, a head pressing against the pillow. The mattress dips, and the frame creaks the more restless the movements become. Gon can’t find comfort. 

“Gon,” Killua says, and he doesn’t dare turn. “For your next mission, let me come along.” 

Killua doesn’t turn, because he knows the reply he’d be met with would be silence regardless.

Gon doesn’t move again.

  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Hey.” 

Killua looks up from his laptop on the couch. He has the Hunter site open, skimming some jobs—it’s over four months since he took anything at all, and while there was plenty to spend, Killua liked having a constant inflow of money just in case he needed to splurge. 

It makes him just a little antsy, to have passed so long without using his nen. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m going to the park.” 

The words on his screen suddenly don’t make any sense. Killua pauses, furrowing his brows and looking up at Gon.

“Okay?” 

Gon hesitates—he stares blankly at Killua and chews on his lip and nods, his fingers clenching and unclenching just slightly. Killua keeps an eye on him, letting his eyes travel up and down Gon’s body for any other signs of discomfort. His hair is picked up into a sweeping ponytail, longer than before.

Gon hadn’t let Killua trim it even a bit. 

After a moment, Gon continues forward, stepping past Killua’s seat and resting his hand on the doorknob. He hesitates again. Killua stares. 

_Is… Is Gon asking him to tag along?_

He isn’t prone to tell Killua where he’s going—not if it’s a casual thing. Gon likes to go out and explore Jappon, and he always returns, no matter Killua’s fears, but he never announced those explorations aloud, and especially not to Killua. The only time Killua knew when Gon was going out was when he announced his leave for missions. 

_Which is why this…_

With as little force as possible, despite the trembling of his fingers and quivering of his palms, with static coursing his veins in excitement, Killua shuts his laptop screen and opens his mouth—opens and closes and struggles to find the right words, because Gon is _still_ standing there.

“Do…” Killua swallows. “Do you want me to come along?” 

For a moment, Gon says nothing. 

He doesn’t acknowledge the words. But the mood shifts—it gets lighter, just slightly. And if Killua hadn’t been living with Gon being terse for four months now, he wouldn’t have noticed it. He wouldn’t have noticed how the stifling energy has been letting up, a little. Not by much, but it was better than it was four months ago. 

“If you want.” 

Gon doesn’t turn. 

Killua doesn’t need him to. 

He stands, setting aside the laptop on the couch and reaching for his keys, and the shuffling makes Gon go rigid before relaxing, pulling open the door and stepping outside to wait for Killua. 

It doesn’t take long. 

Killua wouldn’t ever pass up an opportunity like this. 

_Gon asking him? Not in a million years. Not ever._

_Not with the way they are now._

His wallet, his keys, his phone. That’s all he really needs. 

The park isn’t far from the apartment—not really. It’s a five-minute walk down the road, just to their left, and Killua could get there in seconds if they’d used Godspeed, but Gon was still in Zetsu, and Killua wasn’t sure if his electricity would be something that would hurt Gon; Alluka always complained that it tickled, but she had Nanika’s power protecting her. 

Gon has nothing. 

And as they’re walking, Killua can’t help but notice how close their hands are. It’s hard not to, when the crowd grew in size the closer they got to the park, and the hand-holding between couples increased exponentially. If Killua reached out, he could wrap his fingers around Gon’s, give a gentle squeeze and not look at him—just continue walking. He really wants to hold Gon’s hand.

There are so many people holding hands. 

Killua’s heart aches. 

Almost—almost, a little voice rings. And it’s a serpent in its lies, urging him to reach forward and do it. He listens to the pied piper, inching his hand forward, fingers quivering. Gon’s scarred hands are centimeters away. Their skin nearly brushes—

Gon pulls away, in his own world, crouching down and pulling a lush, red flower from it’s spot on the ground. It’s cute, the way Gon turns, happiness uncharacteristically on his face, excitement beaming for just a second. His eyes are crescents, and he’s holding the flower so gently. 

His expression sombers when he realizes he’s smiling. 

“Didn’t know atibum’s grew here.” He says quietly. 

Killua gives a chuckle. “A lot of plants grow here. You’d be surprised.” 

“Oh,” Gon says, and Killua looks over. Gon is staring at other species of flowers sprouting from the entrance of the park. “Cianna and esrary. Fire mint weeds are growing too.” 

“Somehow,” Killua starts with a smile, “I’ve been in this park plenty of times, I still don’t know shit about the local flora.” 

Gon’s mouth twitches. 

He’s restraining a smile. 

“That’s your fault.” 

There’s an edge of happiness. Of joy. 

It’s the most Killua has gotten out of Gon in the past months. Something _positive_ and not a persistence of negativity. Glee and delight and exhilaration all stir within Killua’s chest, a myriad of emotions. It feels _good._ It feels so good to see Gon get better. To see him get a little closer to _him._

“C’mon, I wanna show you something.” 

Gon follows him without question. Killua leads him off the park’s main path, towards a dirt patch that has Gon frowning the further they walk. And Killua stops in front of a small stand, fishing for his wallet and paying sixteen-thousand jenny for the glass panes to open and push out two big loaves of bread. 

He hands one to Gon.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

Killua snorts. “Feed the ducks, idiot.” 

Gon furrows his brows. “The ducks?”

“Yeah, the ducks. Look,” Killua points to the big lake down the path, covered by hanging branches. “It’s a somewhat secret lake. Not many people go.” 

Gon walks towards it. “There’s a machine for bread here.”

“And?”

“That means it’s not really a secret.” 

Killua laughs. “Yeah, I guess it’s not really. But people don’t come by here often. I’ve come enough times to know that.”

A hum. 

Gon pushes the branches out of the way, and a breath escapes him, sunrays flaring into his face, sunlight glimmering down onto the lake. Killua almost shoves him forward playfully like he used to. Almost. 

He knows Gon reacts negatively to touch.

They take a seat at the base of the lake, near the shore, where the water is dangerously close to soaking both their feet. Neither of them cares. Gon is staring out at the lake, knees to his chest, as he rips some pieces of the bread and tosses them at the edge of the water. 

They’re so close, Killua could brush their fingers together. Again. He could try again. 

His heart rate picks up. 

He’d best not. Gon might shift, or get mad. 

“I have a name for all the ducks,” Killua says after a moment. 

Gon makes a noise of question. 

He points towards the duck furthest from the group. “That’s Bread. And those two ducks closer to each other are Cookie and Milk. The group of four at two o’clock are Ginger, Chocolate, Strawberry, and Vanilla.” 

Killua is met with silence. And then:

“Were you hungry when naming them?” Gon says flatly. 

He can’t help the way he throws his head back and gives a full-hearted laugh—from the depth of his heart, it comes out of him, loud and boisterous and hearty. And Killua looks over at Gon, eyes nearly shut from the force of his smile, mouth curved into a grin, and maybe he imagined it, but Gon seemed to have smiled for a second there too.

“Maybe I was.” 

“I would’ve named them better.” 

Killua tosses some bread further into the lake. The ducks are coming closer. 

“Really now?” Killua stifles his laughter. “Like what?”

Gon puffs his cheeks. “Rob. Van. Guy.” 

This time, Killua laughs even harder, hands dropping the bread and clutching his stomach, doubling forward as tears line his eyes. His shoulders shake, his stomach swarms with butterflies. In these moments, it’s hard not to tell Gon how much he loves him.

“Those are _terrible_ names, Gon.” 

He looks over at him.

Gon is staring at him with a weird expression. 

His eyes are just a little wide—mouth agape. Killua can’t quite place it, but it seems oddly vulnerable. And just as quickly as it was there, it was gone, because Gon points, and Killua looks over to see the ducks running off with his loaf of bread in their beaks, pecking at it incessantly. 

“Oh—Fuck, damn it!” 

Gon chews on his lips to cover his smile. 

Killua remembers Gon mentioning that he had never really _traveled_ around the cities he went to for missions. Gon had said it with an unplaceable tone, eyes distant and reliving something. Killua thinks of their promise years ago on Whale Island, to travel the world together. 

It seems Gon has already done that. Though not the way they’d wanted. 

If Gon had been sleeping in trees and caves prior, if Gon was limiting himself to the slums of cities and only the sections that required him to go for his mission, then he didn’t experience anything. He didn’t soak in the culture, or traditions, or the sights. 

He can—Killua thinks, for just a second—Gon can experience everything he wants, the actual good things, with him now. If the Phantom Troupe forced Gon to see all the bad, then Killua would show him all the good. 

A quack pulls Killua from his thoughts. 

Gon is slowly reaching out, a small piece of bread in his hand, urging the duck to come closer. He’s taking slow breaths, and the duck wags its tail, giving another quack and plucking the bread straight from Gon’s hands. It comes closer to Gon, searching for more bread, clambering onto the shore. 

Gon’s eyes are sparkling. 

Killua hides his smile behind the palm of his hand, pretending to sulk. 

He’s sure if Gon saw him smiling, he’d realize the glimmer in his eyes and force them to rot. 

“Berry seems to like you.” The words are muffled against the palm of his hand. 

Killua expects Gon to ridicule the name—to huff and make another dry joke about how bad Killua is at naming ducks in particular. Instead, Gon’s lips stretch, and though he doesn’t turn, Killua can see just how gentle the smile gracing his lips is. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Are you sure?”

Killua looks over, tightening the straps of his shoes.

“What?”

Gon stares at him. His hood is on again. He adjusts it, fingers fidgeting. “The mission.” 

Killua pauses, flexing his fingers to feel the electricity humming just under his skin. “I told you I’d come with you this time.” 

Silence. 

“Okay.” 

He fights the urge to look over at Gon—he can’t bring himself to see the type of expression Gon might be making. Would it be bad? Good? He shifts his thoughts. _Don’t think about that._ He’s completely charged up on electricity; Whirlwind and Speed of Lightning should be good to go. He can use Godspeed if he needs to. 

_But what about Gon?_

Killua hasn’t seen him use his nen. He doesn’t even know what Gon has developed for himself—he’s an Enhancer, it has to be something physical. And then there’s the faint reminder at the back of Killua’s head, that when Gon had slipped out of Zetsu, just a little, his aura was so strong, it nearly overwhelmed Killua. 

He swallows roughly, shoving his keys into the potted plant by the front door, and stuffing his hands in his pockets as they made their way downstairs. The night breeze cools Killua’s skin and makes him all the more anxious. Will they walk there? Run? Just what methods does Gon use? 

“Switch into Zetsu.” Gon’s voice is flat. “Your aura is too obvious.” 

_He knows that, he was about to._

“We’re going to the province of Watagawa, it’s far into the island.” 

Killua runs the numbers through his head.

He knows of the Watagawa province. Nearly a day's time of travel on foot, hidden in a forest of trees. It’s a poor province, with a lack of access to the sea making importations costly. Their isolation is well-known, and being landlocked didn’t help at all. If Killua was running with Gon on his back, they’d make it to Watagawa in an hour's time. 

“It shouldn’t take longer than a few hours to arrive.” 

His head snaps up at Gon, who walks just a few paces ahead of him. 

_A few hours?_

_So they were running then._

“What’s our mission?”

Killua watches Gon’s fingers tighten into a fist and then release. Nothing else betrays his outward nonchalance. 

“I need to kill a man and get his sword.” 

_Not ‘we’._

I.

_Gon isn’t including him…_

_That’s fine._

That means a man will die tonight. Maybe an innocent man. Maybe not. But the mission is to get the sword. So they’ll get the sword, after spilling blood. Maybe it’ll be at sunrise, when the sun is out and the light bathes the ground orange. Maybe the blood will be less obvious then. 

They reach the bottom of the apartment. Watagawa is north of this city. So they have to move north, up past the mountains and into the forests. 

“Keep up.” 

Gon doesn’t even give him a moment. He’s taking off, and Killua scrambles to run after him, with his nen thrumming and humming and cracking below his skin, urging him to pull into Speed of Lightning. Killua refrains. He’d definitely outrun Gon that way. 

And it shouldn’t be surprising, for how lithe Gon is—his stature hasn’t grown much, and he’s thin from his eating habits—but Gon is _fast._ Faster than he used to be when they were kids. It’s impressive, when Gon leaps from the ground onto the rooftop of a five-story building, and Killua uses ko to jump after him. 

They hop from building to building, over everything they can—practically flying over asphalt and dirt roads. Most of the city lights are off, but some signs are still shining, and Killua peers at Gon, noticing how Gon always stays ahead of him, always a pace in front when running. 

He hopes it’s not for the reason he’s thinking. 

The concrete building and shoreline disappear slowly, until they’re jumping on trees and logs further inland. Gon isn’t even breaking a sweat. Killua is definitely impressed. This running is nothing to him, but he wasn’t sure how long Gon would’ve been able to keep it up.

He was wrong to underestimate his best friend after so many years. 

He’s endured so much; Killua shouldn’t think so lowly of him. 

Gon is strong, too. 

Their pace stays constant, even when they jump down from the trees and decide to run on the ground. The terrain isn’t exactly favorable—with plenty of logs and fallen trees in their path, but it’s not that hard to avoid and jump over either way. The fabric of Gon’s hood swishes in the air, and his long hair, picked up into a ponytail, seems to float in the wind. Killua wants to stare. 

He forces himself not to.

Single-digit miles bleed into the double and triple digits, and Killua is sure they’ve run over one-hundred miles in a little under four hours when they catch sight of a village with a towering brick gate. Killua can see the Minka houses filling all the space—most crammed together, but others are more spaced out and luxurious, signaling their wealth. 

The sun is going to rise a few hours. 

“It’s that house.” 

Gon points to the largest Minka, with a large deck, and all the doors are shut. There are lanterns lit up, and the surrounding forest has lowered the air temperature to the point of it being chilly. Killua stares at the house, before scrambling after Gon, who takes fearless steps into the open space. 

He grabs his wrist and drags him back. 

“What are you doing?” Killua hisses quietly. 

Gon frowns. “Kill the man, take the sword.” 

“Just like that?” 

A nod. 

Killua feels his heart rate pick up. He grinds his teeth. “I’ll be the bait. You steal the sword.” 

Gon’s features harden. “No.”

“You can’t just—”

“Stay away and wait for me to finish.” 

_He doesn’t want Gon to kill someone. This person has to be innocent._

_“Not killing is hard,” Killua used to say._ It is, but it’s doable. He won’t just let Gon—

There’s rustling.

Killua’s head snaps towards the noise.

Men. There are several men. They can take them all on, it’s fine. This will be okay—he’s here to help Gon. 

Gon sucks in a breath and tenses, before pushing Killua away from himself. And Killua stumbles, nearly missing his footing, and watches as Gon removes the daggers from his sheath, throwing them one after another. Ugly gurgling. Choking and gasps. They’re all quiet sounds—barely distinguishable. Gon relaxes. 

He’s still in Zetsu. 

And all at once, Killua catches another figure, from the corner of his eye. There’s no aura, it’s—it’s In. In is being utilized. But there’s no chance to think about that—Gon is turning too slow, and the man is coming forward too fast. They had relaxed too fast. _Too fast, too fast, too fast._ The blade is dipped in something thick and black.

_Poison._

Gon is going to get stabbed.

Killua drops his Zetsu all at once. 

_Gon doesn’t have resistance to poison._

His aura seeps out hastily, and he forces the electricity to manifest as quickly as possible, a stinging sensation filling his body. Godspeed takes over, pulling him forward on instinct even as he’s adjusting to the pain. There’s no pre-programmed response Killua has for this—he’s stuck in defense. 

The man is too close. 

He’ll take the pain. 

All at once, his body is pulling into Gon’s space, shoving him away and sheltering him from the impact of the blade. Godspeed pushes him as far as it can to minimize the damage, but the blade still strikes, puncturing into Killua’s skin, and he grimaces, grinding his teeth. 

_This is fine. Gon is fine._

Killua chances a look at Gon.

_Rage._

There is only rage in Gon’s expression. 

Killua stumbles to the ground, pushed down by the assailant. 

Then, he feels it all in one blow.

Gon’s Zetsu drops completely.

The bloodlust oozes out of him, paralyzing the man, causing him to freeze and stumble backward, dropping the sword. It clatters onto the dirt with an audible _thunk._ Killua feels his skin tingle from the utter potency of Gon’s intent, his anger swirling around him, almost literally. And _god,_ the wound on his side: Blood wets his skin and colors his clothes red. 

A step forward, then another—Gon’s steps are silent, the soles of his feet connecting with the dirt and then he’s leaning forward, throwing all his aura into his leg to get maximum boost. One moment the assailant is in front of Killua, and the next, he’s within Gon’s grasp, a hand strangling his throat.

Killua hears a sickening crack, and then the familiar sound of gurgling.

There’s a look of indifference on Gon’s face. 

Eyes an abyss of darkness.

The corpse drops to the ground, blood seeping out.

_Blood?_

His throat is slashed open, flesh ripped open. That makes no sense—Gon used all his dangers on…

Oh.

When Killua’s eyes dart to Gon’s hands, he sees it. 

The sharp nails. 

Gon’s nails are sharper, blunter—similar to Killua’s own claws. But they’re not caused by muscle control. They can’t be. One look using Gyo confirms it: it’s Gon’s nen ability. He’s enhancing the ability of his own nails to increase his attack. Killua swallows, his throat feeling dry.

The empty eyes, the nails, the indifference. 

_Gon looks like a spitting image of Killua._

It hits Killua a lot harder than he should.

There’s only silence until Gon snaps out of it, and he turns quickly.

“Killua—” He gasps out, stumbling towards him, and the quivering of Gon’s voice sends Killua’s heart into overdrive. 

_He’s worried._

Killua can’t help the way his eyes water slightly. 

Gon leans close, throwing himself on his knees to grab Killua’s body, and his brows are furrowed, eyes searching all over Killua’s form. 

“Does it hurt? Are you okay?”

_He cares._

Killua nearly chokes out a sob. 

“Killua?” The intonation of Gon’s voice rises—he’s panicked. “It’s okay, he’s dead. I killed him. He won’t hurt you.”

_That’s not what Killua cares about._

Despite the wetness in his eyes, Killua forces himself to take a breath and calm himself, before biting his lips and nodding. Gon’s hands skim over Killua’s torn turtleneck, almost lifting the fabric to check the wound. He pauses, staring at his own blood-soaked hands. 

Killua looks between his hands and Gon.

This time, he lets his fingers touch Gon’s skin.

The blood smears on Killua’s hands too. 

“It’s fine. You’re not a killer.” 

Gon looks up at him, and then down at his hands. 

He shuts his eyes tightly, nose scrunching. 

“He hurt you.” 

“He was going to hurt you too.”

“You shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way,” Gon says, and his fingers skim the fabric again. Killua doesn’t miss the quivering. “Can I?” 

Another nod. 

Gon lifts it. 

It’s a lot more blood than he expected.

Unreadable emotions cross Gon’s face. 

“Is it tolerable?” 

_Tolerable._

It makes Killua want to laugh. Gon knows he’s accustomed to pain—but he wants to know if it’s too much pain for him to handle internally. If it’ll make him dissociate. His heart feels close to bursting, with Gon being more empathetic than he has been these past months. Killua craves it like honey to a bee. 

“It’s not that deep of a wound,” Gon hurries to say, fingers touching his skin. “We—we need to put pressure. You’re bleeding a lot.”

_‘We’ is a lot of people._

It’s not _just_ Killua. 

_It’s Gon and Killua._

Gon fumbles with his hood, ripping it off and pressing it against Killua’s bleeding wound. His movements are panicked, fumbling clumsily and pushing against the skin of his lower right abdomen. It’s not a serious wound, he’ll be okay. But Gon isn’t registering that, he just keeps staring at the blood pooling out. 

“It’s fine, Gon.” 

“It’s not—we…” He takes a breath, looking around. “There was a tavern not far behind. They’ll have a first aid, c’mon, get up.” 

Killua struggles to his feet. 

More relief floods under him when Gon pulls his arm over his neck, and Gon wraps his own hand around Killua’s waist, carefully avoiding the wound. 

“What about—” Killua stumbles over his words. Fuck, he can tolerate pain but it _hurts._ “What about the sword you needed?” 

Gon picks up the discarded sword on the ground, making sure Killua stayed upright while he ripped its sheath from the corpse. 

“It’s this one,” he says flatly. “That was our target.” 

_One less thing to worry about, then._

Gon’s at his side in seconds again, keeping his hand tightly around Killua’s waist. It feels warm. Well—Killua felt warm in general, his head was dizzy and he wondered if it was from a lack of blood or Gon’s proximity, Gon’s care: Gon, Gon, Gon. He fills his senses.

He swallows roughly. 

Gon tightens his hold, peering down at Killua’s wound more often than necessary. 

The tavern isn’t far, but the walk there would’ve been a lot quicker if Gon hadn’t forced Killua to take slower steps than usual.

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Killua’s mind is fuzzy. 

He wakes up with his stomach wrapped in bandages, and a splitting headache. Pushing himself up and rubbing his temple, he grimaces, before his heart drops and he realizes the bandages just below his belly button are covering a wound from a mission, Gon’s mission—

_—Where is Gon?_

He whips his head up, throat dry, and catches Gon’s form resting against a chair. 

_He’s back in Zetsu._

“You’re awake.” 

Killua startles. 

“Gon—”

“Don’t you dare do that again.” Gon’s voice is hushed. Quiet and low and yet all the more filled with rage. Killua stills. 

“I’d do it all over again.”

Gon shakes his head. “You put yourself in unnecessary danger—”

“You were going to get stabbed—”

“It’s—” Gon speaks over Killua, “It’s okay if I die, but not you.”

Everything stills.

His mind halts. 

And Killua is reminded of just four years ago, when Gon had said those very words to him. Had reassured him that he’d be okay, and they’d leave. Gon had been so sure that he could suffer, but Killua couldn’t. Why? Why, why, why? Anger stirs along with his unused electricity. He caps his bloodlust—he doesn’t want to hurt Gon. 

“You don’t get to decide when you won’t hear me out,” Killua says. 

Gon does a double-take. He opens his mouth to speak, eyebrows furrowed, but Killua brings up his hand to silence him. 

“You don’t get to decide what I do and don’t do for you. So, sorry if this is the way to prove to you I care and always have.” 

Gon’s mouth promptly shuts. 

His eyes harden. 

“You can’t say that.”

“I absolutely can.” 

Gon grips his fingers into fists. “You can’t. It’s not your place.” 

The words sting. 

Killua tries to force the sinking feeling of his heart away. 

He averts his gaze. 

They must be in the tavern. And it must’ve not have been free to stay the night. Killua isn’t sure where Gon got the money from. 

He kicks off the sheets, pushing himself off the mattress. His back feels stiff as all hell. 

“Killua—” Gon scrambles forward, fingers brushing. 

“It’s fine.” Killua doesn’t break away from Gon’s grasp. The warmth of his fingers on his pulse is nice. “I’m fast at healing.”

Slowly, his alabaster hands peel off the bandage. Gon sucks in a breath, staring at the already-healed patch of skin. It’s almost like the wound was erased, like it never happened. They can leave this tavern, go back to his apartment. They need that, he thinks. 

Gon nods, although he still stares at the healed skin. 

Killua throws on his shirt. 

“How much do I owe you?”

Gon frowns. He doesn’t reply. 

Killua sighs. “How much did staying here cost, Gon?”

“Nothing.” After a moment, he speaks up again. “Let’s go back ho—to your apartment.” 

He pretends he doesn’t hear the stumbling of Gon’s words, and nods. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A lot can happen in the span of a week.

Gon has taken to sleeping outdoors. 

Sometimes, he dozes off while staring up at the stars. Killua carries him down as quietly as he can every time, and Gon will wake up disoriented before adjusting to his surroundings. Killua knows, because he always makes sure to wake up before Gon. 

A part of him fears Gon will just up and leave, but another part of him likes to stare at the curves of his cheeks—which have fattened since his return with Killua, no longer gaunt—and the freckles which dot his skin. Killua counts them, meticulously, one, two, five, twenty—the highest number he’s gotten to is one-hundred-seventy-two. And he likes to stare at Gon’s lashes, his softened features no longer hard-set from his frown.

_The crease of his brow is never there when Gon is asleep._

But it’s a little different now. 

Gon looks anxious, ever since their return. 

It’s been a week after the mission, and he spends most of his time out—either walking around Jappon without telling Killua, or sitting on the rooftop. Killua has seen him dangling his legs at the edge of the roof, propped up against his palms and looking up, eyes wide. 

In those times, Killua wonders what he’s thinking. 

Tonight, Killua’s stacking away leftovers into the fridge when he hears a clattering sound in the bedroom, and he frowns, setting down the last plate in the rack and drying his hands before stepping into the bedroom. Gon is standing there, palm gripping the window frame. 

“You alright?” He asks with a breathless chuckle. His eyes crinkle into a laugh. “Did you fall or—”

“I can’t keep doing this.”

Killua stills. His expression falls. A pit opens at the bottom of his stomach. 

“What?”

Gon keeps his distance, but Killua comes closer. Gon steps back against the window, he averts his gaze. 

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t stay. I’m leaving.” 

_Leaving?_

_But Killua just found him._

“You can’t just leave,” Killua says.

Gon looks up at him, but doesn’t reply. 

“Gon, I—” Killua chokes on his words. His heart feels heavy and his words are thin. “We only just reunited.” 

An empty stare. “You found me. I didn’t want this.” 

Killua swallows every bit of agony he feels. He swallows the pain and steps forward. “I just—You can’t just leave.” He repeats. 

It feels like swallowing broken glass. The words lodged in his throat are sharp and hurt. Everything hurts. Killua’s hands tremble. 

“I spent years looking for you!” _Why is he raising his voice?_ “I spent months and hours and minutes tracking every bit of information to find you, I didn’t give up on you, Gon.” _Why is he mad?_

“And I finally found you! So why are you giving up on _us?”_

_The words hurt to even say._

Killua reaches for Gon’s wrists, wrapping his fingers tightly around them. 

Gon grinds his teeth, clenching his hands into tight fists. Killua can see the way his knuckles go white, the way his body goes rigid. 

Gon’s Zetsu wavers. 

“Get your hands off me!” He shouts, and the aura that bursts out is so potent that Killua stumbles back, shocked. “Stop lying to me! You were _never_ looking for me!”

“I don’t,” He continues, stumbling over himself, hysteria seeping into his words. “I don’t appreciate liars, at least the Troupe never lied to me!” 

The anger rises within Killua, choking his lungs and stealing his breath, and he grits his teeth in annoyance. His nen threatens to burst out, and the electricity beneath his skin crackles and rings. _This always happens. It always goes like this, when there’s a disagreement._

“All the Troupe has done is torture you and _lie,_ Gon!” Killua’s voice commands authority. It’s shrill and loud and just teetering on yelling. “Trust me, I _lived it_ longer than you—since I was born. _I lived it._ So don’t you tell me I don’t recognize the signs.”

Gon’s eyes go empty once again. His brows are furrowed and there’s a deep crease just between them. He grinds his teeth.

“You weren’t _there!”_

Killua raises his hands to his chest, slamming the palm of his hand against it. “I tried!” 

“No, you didn’t!” Gon’s voice cracks. “The Troupe helped me back up, not you!” 

In a moment of anger, against his better judgment—when he knows it isn’t Gon’s fault he’s like this, when he knows he should be gentle and caring—Killua allows his aura to burst out, and he uses Godspeed against Gon, pushing him against the wall, pinning him there so that Gon would _look_ at him and get it through his head. 

The electricity makes his skin glow. It forces his hair to become frizzy, and the static which runs down his skin tingles. He tries not to touch Gon, keeping both his palms slammed against the wall at the side of his head. _If he touched Gon, it might hurt him._

He lets Gon stare at him. 

He lets Gon _soak it all in._

His eyes are wide, lips parted and staring up at Killua, and his eyes harden before they melt all at once, pooling into a pathetic expression of defeat. He stares.

“The Troupe didn’t leave me, but you did.” 

Quiet, whispered words.

The agony is there. The wounds and scars are there, not at all healed, and it sounds like they're being torn open. Killua can hear the flesh being ripped open again. 

Gon takes a shaky breath and averts his gaze. 

The long strands of hair fall and cover his features. 

Killua releases Godspeed, falling back into Zetsu as smoothly as he can. Tentatively, he reaches for the strands of loose hair and tucks it behind Gon’s ear. Gon shrinks away from his touch, but ultimately lets him with nothing more than a quiet noise of distress. Killua lifts his chin with his thumb softly.

“I never _left,_ Gon,” He says it as gently as he can, trying to keep the firmness there. “I came back and you weren’t there. I spent weeks looking. I wouldn’t leave that apartment lot, I still know it like the back of my hand.” 

Gon’s eyes water.

_Oh, God, his eyes water._ And the hazel in them gleams so brightly, that Killua can see the specks of black exploded like stars within the pool of honey. Gon’s eyes are gorgeous. And yet they’re spilling tears, so many tears. Gon doesn’t look away. 

“I remember that day—” His voice cracks, and he pauses, taking a breath. “I remember that day like it was yesterday. I remember running behind you, I remember something grabbing my ankles and pulling me down. It made me stop and fall to the ground. I remember calling your name for help, and I remember you not turning around.”

Gon bites his lip, and his eyes tell so much pain. “I remember you got progressively further until you were a dot in the distance, and then you were nothing.”

Killua’s breath hitches. His heart falls rotten.

“I didn’t hear anything, Gon.” His hands tremble. “I didn’t hear you calling me. All I know is you were next to me one moment, and the next you weren’t.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not—”

“I called your name so many times,” Gon says over him. “I called you when I was taken. I called you when they yanked me inside. I called you when they grabbed me and tortured me.”

Killua feels the familiar feeling of his throat spasming. 

“I called until my voice gave out and I was coughing blood. I never stopped calling until I realized you couldn’t hear me anymore.” 

It’s the little things—it’s the little things that hurt the most. 

Killua’s eyes well with tears, and he can’t help it, when he reaches out and grips Gon’s shoulders so tightly, the warmth of his fingers digging into the blades of Gon’s cold shoulders—marking the flesh with indentations of his nails. And he pulls Gon’s close, as close as he can, no matter how stifling it may feel, he presses Gon against his chest and lets the sob wrack through his body. 

“I’m sorry, Gon.” 

His fingers travel to Gon’s hair and tangle there. Gon’s hands stay by his side, unsure of whether to touch him. 

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Gon.” His form quivers. “If—If I could, I’d take your place every time. Every single time, without hesitation. I wish it was me they took, not you. I wish it was me.”

Gon stiffens against him. 

“I wish you never got caught; I wish we never decided to help Kurapika. I didn’t want to. Look where it got us.” 

Gon pushes away from Killua, forcing himself out of his strong grip, and staring at him with mild anger brewing in his eyes.

“Saying all of that won’t do anything. Not helping your friends is vile—”

Killua wants to laugh at that. 

“—And what happened, happened. There’s nothing to change.” His voice is stern. 

He swallows, looking down at Gon. 

“One ‘sorry’ would’ve sufficed.” 

The look in Gon’s eyes hurts. There’s distance there, in his stare. His eyes swirl with defense and anger, and they’re all the more telling. Killua shakes his head, biting his lip to get a hold of himself. 

“I need you to understand that I never left you.”

Gon grimaces. 

“I never left you, I never would, not even if it killed me.” Killua takes a deep breath. “I was there, Gon. I was still looking. All I’ve done these past three years is look for you. I went and got my Hunter License to make searching for you easier.”

There’s so much pain in Gon. Pain and hurt. Killua can see it from the way he releases Killua and holds his sides instead. The way he caves into himself, shrinks in and makes himself as small as possible. Gon is hurting, he’s hurting so much. And maybe Killua is making it worse, but everything—everything is just...

The way Gon had refused the alcohol on his wounds, before slowly allowing Killua to douse his skin in the solution—it had been hesitance then, fear, but it was all the same applicable to now. Gon was scared of healing, and he just needed time. That was fine. It just meant healing would take time, and they had that. 

Gon leans back, away from Killua. And Killua reaches out, hand gripping his wrist in a split-second reaction.

Fear flashes in Gon’s eyes.

Killua sees the hairs stand, the way his skin prickles and he flinches. 

He releases Gon’s wrist quickly.

“Sorry.”

Gon looks away, cradling his wrist close. His fingers rub it, and he swallows thickly. 

“But, please,” Killua says. The words sound broken. “Please don’t go.” 

One second passes.

Another. 

They bleed into a minute. 

Gon looks back at Killua, chewing on his lower lip.

“Fine.” 

The relief that floods Killua shouldn’t be this immense. He opens his mouth to reply, to thank Gon, but Gon turns away. There’s not a chance to say another word—Gon steps out through the window once again, and scales up towards the rooftop. 

Guilt trends into Killua’s bones and he sighs—slumping and falling back onto the bed, rubbing at his temple and covering his eyes with his forearm. He’s tired. Exhaustion threatens to overtake him, and Killua shuts his eyes just for a moment, breathing in deeply. 

The last thing he remembers is exhaling, and feeling tears run down his face. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Darkness is all around him. 

When Killua opens his eyes, he groans, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably and sitting up. A yawn escapes him as he rubs his eyes, sleep clinging onto him. The clock on the bedside reads three in the morning. When had he and Gon argued? Around midnight, maybe? Just before it? 

Gon.

The bed feels empty. 

Killua turns quickly, whipping the sheets off him. 

Gon’s side of the bed is empty, comforter still arranged perfectly from the morning. It’s cold, and empty, and Gon is nowhere in sight. Killua clambers to his feet. The tile floor stings to the point of freezing, chilling the soles of his feet, but Killua doesn’t care. 

He stumbles into the living room. 

Gon isn’t there. 

He’s not in the bathroom, or living room, or kitchen. He’s not in the bedroom. 

_He left._ The voices sing. 

They cry and scratch the inside of his head. _He left._

Tears form in his eyes, and he feels a headache coming once again. Panic seizes him: his lungs struggle to pump oxygen and his stomach churns—ropes feel wrapped around his throat, and his legs feel glued to the ground. His mind is running on a thousand thoughts a second, maybe even more, and Killua _can’t breathe._

The rooftop?

Maybe Gon is still on the rooftop. 

_Please still be on the roof._ A smaller voice says.

The others sneer. _He won’t be there._

Killua slams open the door and races outside, towards the stairs that lead up one extra floor, to the door of the roof. And he should slow down and think, because Gon said he would stay, he agreed he would, he wouldn’t _leave,_ so he still has to be here, but Killua is too afraid and too in love and too many things. 

He feels too many things. 

The door pushes up, creaking with the force of Killua’s slam.

His heart beats faster, and then it slows—all at once. 

Gon is right there. He’s sitting at the edge, dangling his feet and swinging them in the air, staring up at the sky. His hair is waving gently in the night breeze, and he sighs, pressing his hands into his face and curling into himself. Killua feels the sorrow coil and tighten around his organs. 

Instead of stepping forward, Killua steps back, and makes his way downstairs, pulling the blanket from their bed and stuffing it into his arms before going back up. Gon is still sitting there, and maybe he’d been so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t realize Killua was there until he feels a worn fabric sitting on his shoulders, and Killua taking a seat beside him. 

Neither of them says anything for a moment. 

Then, Gon speaks:

“You’re awake.”

Killua looks over at him. Gon is staring at the sky. 

“Yeah.”

The crickets are chirping, and in the distance, if you squint, you could make out fireflies dancing in the air. Birds sit on powerlines and trees. Everything is dark, and so, so serene. The night sky is blue and black, speckles of white—a gorgeous painting just for them. 

Maybe Gon is the main attraction though: a beautiful, imperfect painting. 

“Why?”

Killua presses his lips together. “You weren’t there, and I got worried. What’re you looking at?” 

Gon pauses. He lowers his head to look at the cityscape instead, before looking over at Killua. 

“The…” He starts and stumbles over his words. “The best friend star is visible from here too, y’know?” 

It should be pathetic, the way Killua’s heart picks up so quickly. 

“It makes people do stupid things, apparently.” 

A breathless laugh escapes Killua, and he hopes—he hopes the beating of his heart isn’t too loud. 

He hopes Gon can’t hear it. 

“Yeah,” Killua whispers, “I can see the best friend star, too.” 

The smile Gon gives is faint, but it‘s there nonetheless. It’s there, _visible,_ and Killua’s heart clenches before he looks back up at the sky, engraving the up-turned crease of Gon’s lips into his memory.

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The plate clinks and slides against the table.

Killua looks up. 

Their dinner had been quiet, filled with the ambiance of outdoor chatter and seagulls squawking. And Killua had gone easy on the food, cooking some potatoes and steak, seasoned with a wild assortment of things—thrown together and strewn about to make somewhat of a decent meal. He’ll have to go back to the market tomorrow.

Gon stares at him, then averts his eyes, and he taps the empty plate with his finger, his long nail making a quiet noise against the ceramic. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks. 

“Can I have another?” 

Killua stops mid-chew, staring at Gon with wide eyes. He lowers his fork, and swallows down an entire chunk of steak, nearly choking on it. 

“Like,” He says, “Like, another serving?” 

Gon’s eyebrows furrow just for a second, and he bites his lip before giving a small nod. He still hasn’t made eye contact. 

A smile breaks out on Killua’s face—bright and wide, until his cheeks bunch up and his eyes crinkle. 

“Yeah! How much do you want?” 

Gon looks over, a little flustered. 

“Uh,” He stumbles. 

Killua gives a small laugh. “How about I serve you a little, and if you want more, you can ask for more?” 

He nods dumbly. 

And Killua’s heart soars in his chest. 

It’s a huge stride in development. Sometimes, Gon would eat half a plate—very rarely, he would scrape a full plate. But as time progressed, he got back his fat, and the thinness of his frame disappeared, replaced with a small pudginess that filled out his sides and thighs and fingers and cheeks. It was comforting to see Gon begin to return to a healthier version of himself. 

Slowly, Killua piles on half of a steak, cutting it in half, and taking a spoon to throw on a few potato slices as well. He places the plate in front of Gon, and watches him give a small, grateful smile before he continues to eat: taking the food and knife in hand and cutting away. 

Killua tries his hardest not to stare, but it’s hard when all he wants to do is prop his chin on his palm and watch Gon eat his fill of food. Instead, he occupies his thoughts with finishing his own plate, taking the fork and eating the few pieces of meat remaining, dipping the potatoes in their sauce.

He sneaks a glimpse at Gon, watching his cheeks bunch up as he smiles, and Killua’s heart melts. 

“Hey,” Killua calls out, and Gon looks up, eyes staring as he chews on another piece of steak. “I’m proud of you.” 

Gon stills. His fingers clench and unclench, and his eyes shift their gaze away from Killua before going back to him.

“Thanks.” His voice is meek. 

Killua’s smile widens, and he stands, taking his own plate to the sink.

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Something is shifting beside Killua.

The bed creaks and dips, and Killua feels the cold bite his skin before he sees it—something grips the sheets tightly, crunching the fabric before releasing. Killua’s eyes snap open from the sounds: the panting, the labored breathing, low and panicked.

It’s only ever quiet in the bedroom, but this is different. 

This isn’t playing out how it usually is. 

Killua quickly sits up, eyes adjusting to the dark, and Gon is sitting upright, sweat clinging to his forehead and nape, one hand gripping the mattress and the other gripping his shirt. His mouth is open as he takes uneven breaths—in and out, and in and out. 

He knows the signs.

_A nightmare._

Carefully, Killua reaches out, fingers inching closer to Gon’s skin, and soothing words lay just at the tip of his tongue to say. He knows exactly what to say, how to soothe Gon and calm him. He knows, he understands. _He’s been there._

But the moment his fingers touch the skin of Gon’s forearm, Gon flinches and slaps his hand away, eyes wide and breathing going more ragged. His Zetsu wavers. 

He takes a choked swallow. “Don’t—” 

A shaky exhale. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

Killua’s eyes widen. 

_What?_

More ragged breathing, and Gon tries to take a deep breath—he tries, but he ends up choking on air and coughing, doubling over and scrunching his eyes shut. 

Gon doesn’t elaborate. But he distances himself, just a little. 

“I hate you.” 

The words echo and ring in Killua’s ears. His heart falters and falls and shatters pitifully in his chest, and he finds that his tongue has become dry, unable to move and unable to formulate a single response. 

“I hate you so, so much,” Gon spits the words. His eyebrows are furrowed and he’s not looking at him—staring holes into the sheets instead. 

And then he picks up his head, and looks towards Killua, his eyes unfocused and looking past him, crinkling the sheets further in his fists. His expression crumbles. It crumbles pitifully, until he bites his lip and sucks in a breath, and Killua can see the way his shoulders shake, just a little. 

“But I love you, too.” 

The words make Killua’s heart fill and empty all at once. His chest feels tight and warm. And he—he wants to take those words and hold them close. He so badly craves Gon’s love, everything within him tells him to love Gon and hold him close, to mend their problems. But...

Gon’s breathing hasn’t calmed, no matter how many open-mouthed breaths he takes, no matter how many times he swallows. Gon is struggling to catch his breath. And that’s more important to Killua. 

_Killua wonders what the nightmare was about._

Another rough swallow. Gon’s lips tremble before he presses them together. “It hurts.” 

Panic rises within Killua. “What hurts—”

“It still hurts.” Gon interrupts, and his hands find their way to his own lap, clenching and unclenching, fumbling with the thin blanket. “If you didn’t stay when I was normal, what’s going to keep you around now?” 

There’s an edge of vulnerability to his voice. Of hurt. 

“I never wanted to leave,” Killua says softly. 

Gon doesn’t meet his gaze. “It sounds like a choice.” 

“It was _never_ a choice,” Killua repeats, words hastened. “If I had a choice, I would’ve never left you.” 

The room stills. 

Gon’s breathing is the only thing apparent. 

It’s sort of like everything has paused. 

And finally, Gon’s eyes meet Killua’s—he _really_ looks at him. Gon stares into Killua’s eyes with an emotion Killua can’t begin to place—he stares until it makes Killua’s skin crawl with nerves, until the hairs on his neck stand, until Killua feels the holes practically burning in his own eyes. 

“I just want to pick one.” 

_Pick one what?_

“I just want to either love you, or hate you. But I can’t do either, and I can’t do both.” Gon takes a breath. “And it’s hard. It’s so hard.” 

Defeat. 

Killua opens his mouth. 

The words die there. 

_What to say?_

Gon doesn’t notice. 

“And I wish I could _just pick._ Pick to either give myself to you completely or leave and forget you completely but I can’t do either.” 

_It’s hard to find the right words._

_Killua isn’t sure what Gon wants to hear._

Instead, Killua’s hand snakes through the sheets, low and slow and with obvious intent, before intertwining with Gon’s fingers, pressing inside and wrapping their fingers together. And Gon lets him. He runs his thumb on the dorsal of Gon’s hand, running through the motion repeatedly until the sensation becomes odd against his skin. 

Killua doesn’t mind not one bit. 

The warmth of Gon’s hand extends to his own. Killua’s heart fills. 

“Gon,” he starts softly, “Slow your breathing. Take deep breaths. In through your mouth and out through your nose.”

When Gon does as told, and he’s able to swallow with better ease, Killua smiles gently. 

He tightens his hand in Gon’s encouragingly. 

“Listen to me?” He whispers, “Please?” 

A slow nod. Gon’s hair is so long and pretty, it pools on the bed and it makes Killua want to thread his fingers through it. 

Killua gives him another small smile, caressing his hand. 

“I’m here for you. And I won’t leave you.” Killua takes a breath. “I won’t leave you again.”

He’s not sure if that’s the answer Gon is looking for. Killua isn’t even sure if Gon is looking for an answer—looking for a reason to leave or stay—but if he is, then Killua will give him plenty of reasons. He’ll list and list until he tires of words, until he runs out of reasons.

“We can keep going to the park, and feeding the ducks. And after that, we can come back home and eat together. I’ll always prepare whatever you want, because I always want to see you smile and eat well.” 

One second. Two seconds. Three, four, five. It’s Gon’s face that makes him pause in his ramble. 

Gon stares at him with wide eyes, expression lost—mouth agape, jaw slack—before he promptly shuts his mouth and looks away, scoffing. There’s a slight flush on his face Killua doesn’t miss, dusted high on his cheeks and rose red, spreading down to his nose and ears. 

He pulls his hand out of Killua’s grasp, opting to hug himself close instead, wrapping his arms around his stomach and slouching.

Killua almost reaches out—

And stops himself. 

From this angle, he can see Gon’s eyes flickering between soft and bitter. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Killua is used to a lot of things. 

He’s used to cooking lots of different meals in hopes of finding something Gon really likes. He’s used to reading books to pass the time as quickly as possible. He’s used to the silence of being alone, and the whippings and poisons and abuse as a child. He’s grown accustomed to a lot of things. 

He knows when Gon wakes up—can feel it—because Gon’s Zetsu evens out and hides his aura completely again, smothering his presence. 

But he’s not used to this.

To the sheets beside him empty, with the window letting in a quiet breeze. He’s not used to hearing shuffling sounds in his bedroom, no matter how quiet it is. 

Killua’s eyes snap open. 

His own Zetsu almost wavers in his alarm—but months of being with Gon have taught him to keep it almost as steady as he does, knowing full-well how sensitive Gon is to his aura. He knows Gon can handle only so much before his hands shake with tremors, or he bristles and stands on quivering knees. 

Gon is standing at the corner of the bedroom, sporting his black top and shorts, hair tied up, pulling on his boots. He’s not looking at Killua, he’s not even facing him—back turned towards him, the sword they’d taken from the Watagawa province leaning against the wall. 

Killua’s heart hammers in his chest. 

“Gon?”

He freezes. Killua watches his muscles ripple and tighten and coil—he watches Gon swallow and slowly unwind, standing straight and quietly turning to face him. 

“What are you doing?” 

For a moment, Gon doesn’t respond. 

He stares at Killua, and Killua can see his eyes flicker from Killua to the sword, and back to him, before he breathes in sharply through his mouth. 

“I need to go.” 

Killua undoes the blankets. The bed is cold. 

“Go where?”

Gon shakes his head. “I need to go, Killua.” 

Killua’s mind reels. 

Didn’t they already talk about this? Didn’t they come to the conclusion Gon could _?_ Gon is leaving. Gon is leaving, again. 

His feet touch the tile ground. That’s cold too. 

“Gon—”

“I’m not leaving, I just have to go. I’ll be back—” Gon says hurriedly. “I’m coming back. But you need to stay here.”

Everything is cold. 

Killua steps forward until he’s in front of Gon, stepping blindly through the darkness, listening to the ruffling of the curtain fabric as it waved from the wind. Even then, in this darkness, Killua can see the hazel gleam of Gon’s eyes—the life within them.

_There’s so much more light in them—where is Gon going? What will happen to the light in his eyes if he leaves?_

“ _Where_ are you going?” Killua asks. He’s more firm than necessary.

Gon stares. He opens his mouth and shuts it and swallows—pressing his lips together and licking his lips. 

“There’s a meeting,” Gon says, “with the Troupe.” 

Oh.

_Oh, God._

Gon has to go _back_ to them? 

Gon has to willingly return to those _people,_ and he has to stay there for God knows how long, and he has to—he has to interact with them. He has to be there. That’s why he has the sword out. That’s why he was being quiet, dressing silently. Killua wasn’t supposed to hear him, and—

—and they’ve made so much progress. The light in Gon’s eyes. His posture is less stiff, less on-edge. He’s more fluid, more active. He speaks his mind. He’s starting to eat. Gon is making so much progress. The Troupe will take that too, they’ll steal Gon’s light just like they steal everything else. 

_Just like they stole Gon before._

Killua forces himself to swallow down the spit collecting in his mouth. 

His heart feels heavy and his palms sweat. 

“Gon—”

“Killua.” Gon’s gaze hardens, and his voice draws into frigid temperatures. It’s rough around the edges. “It’s not a request. I need you to listen to me, like you used to when we were kids.” 

_When we were kids?_

They _still were_ kids. 

They’re sixteen, and bearing more scars then they should—more weight than they should. They’re sixteen, and scared—sixteen and abused, sixteen and hurting. There are wounds reopening, wounds closing, wounds that haven’t healed just right—the skin lifted and ugly. 

They’re sixteen and still trying to fix what happened between them. 

Killua takes a deep breath. 

Forces himself to find his head and keep him calm. 

“Alright.” 

_Listen to me…_

_...like when we were kids._

He can do that. 

“I’ll stay.” 

For a moment, nothing happens. 

Gon stares at Killua, Killua stares at Gon.

And then a frown crosses his features. 

He squints at Killua, and then nods stiffly. 

“Okay. Thanks.” 

Gon reaches for the floor and shuffles on his hood, reaching for the sword, when Killua grips his wrist. 

“How long?”

There’s a quick wrinkle to Gon’s nose. His mouth twitches. Maybe it’s in annoyance. Maybe it’s in distress. 

“I don’t know.”

It’s kind of hard to breathe. Killua can feel the tips of his fingers go numb—he isn’t sure if it’s because of the electricity that runs through them suddenly, or the fact that Gon will leave and won’t know when he comes back. 

“Maybe,” He starts, pressing his lips before sighing, “Maybe five days?”

_Five days._

Five days isn’t terribly long.

Gon has been gone for far longer times. A little relief pools in his stomach. But he still holds his breath, still fidgets and swallows his tongue. His throat feels parched. Maybe he should get water, when Gon leaves. _When Gon leaves…_ the words feel foreign. They feel odd to say. 

A breath. Killua chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Okay.” 

Gon turns, heading for the window. 

_He’s leaving._

When Killua sees his fingers—thicker and plumper than the meatless bones they once were—touch the wood panel, he feels himself almost reach forward. He almost takes that step, almost puts his right foot forward towards Gon. He really almost does. But Gon has made it clear that touching him is off-limits, so Killua refrains. 

Instead, he calls out to Gon one more time.

“Gon.” 

He pauses on the windowsill, one foot out the window, the other squatted against the white surface. And his body turns, just a little. Just halfway. Gon side-eyes him, waiting for a response. 

_Take a deep breath out._

Killua exhales. 

“Stay safe, please.” 

He can’t help the fact that his voice sounds softer than usual—more breathless. 

Gon’s head tilts a little more towards him, before he looks away and out the window. 

“I’ll try.” 

And just like that, Gon is stepping out the window. Killua hears the gushing of wind whipping around his falling body, and then nothing. 

Gon is gone. Killua can’t see him, can’t hear him, can’t feel him, can’t smell him. He’s gone. 

And just like that, Killua realizes he can’t do _that._

Killua can’t stay. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gon makes it a hard task to keep up with following him. Killua keeps himself a good distance away, Zetsu still going strong, footsteps utterly quiet, just to avoid detection. And Gon is _good_ at making sure no one is following. He pauses, he turns—sometimes he’ll go three circles before entering a cave and coming back out. 

Killua never follows him into the caves, but he makes sure he can still sense him.

Not through his Zetsu.

He’s realized that the further they traveled, the further north and further inland they went. 

_The Trope wasn’t meeting outside of Jappon, then._

Killua wonders if it has to do with Gon. 

Instead, Killua had slipped back into his assassin mode to keep up with Gon. He feels his focus shift around him, beelining with Gon’s form, and his stare is light enough that Gon doesn’t realize he’s following—he doesn’t pick up on Killua’s presence. 

_That’s good._

Gon is entering another cave. 

Killua crouches on the branch of a tree, waiting. Staring. 

Breathe in, breathe out. 

His heart rate is calm. 

It’s slow and steady and everything that Killua feels like he isn’t, at least not mentally. He wants to panic, and maybe shout. Maybe even scream. He wants to show himself to Gon and grab him and tell him that he doesn’t need to do this—he doesn’t have to return to the Troupe. 

_But would Gon listen to him?_

Probably not. 

Killua broke his promise, too. He said he would stay home after Gon had _pleaded with him_ to stay. 

The forest is dark—branches overhanging and thick, smothering the moonlight. The grass is overgrown and phthalo green, curling over the coarse dirt in waves. Killua makes sure to step carefully, avoiding twigs and rocks and leaves in his movements. Staying in Zetsu makes it hard to keep focus. 

Gon is stepping out of the cave. 

And he’s holding more things than he came in with. 

The sword, sure—that was expected—but he has a rough-patch bag over his shoulders, worn and with a few holes, bulky and filled with other things. 

_Was Gon keeping his things here?…_

_...Where he’d mentioned he was staying?_

Killua had completely forgotten about that. He’d forgotten Gon mentioning that he slept in caves. 

Gon pauses at the mouth of the cave, standing and looking out towards the forest. He frowns, and for a moment, Killua wonders if Gon had spotted him, but he takes a deep breath, and he starts off again down a path into the forest. Killua releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and follows after him. 

Near sunrise, when the sun begins to dye the world orange and yellow, and bites away at the cold, blue darkness, they arrive at an abandoned factory. It’s huge—out in the middle of nowhere, and they’d continued traveling north, moving back towards the direction of the coast. Killua calculates they must only be an hour or so from a secondary city, since this district looks abandoned. 

The factory itself is rundown, with boarded-up doors and windows and a crumbling foundation. The chainlink fence creaks in complaint as Gon’s hand grips it, crushing two of the links in the process—staring at the building before sighing and jumping over seamlessly. His feet connect with the ground soundlessly. Killua watches, hidden behind fallen debris. 

From where he stands, he can see Gon walk closer and closer into the factory, until he disappears behind the drywall and enters the factory.

Killua stands, taking off after Gon, sneakers connecting against the floor silently. 

He can hear chatter from inside. 

_Lean in closer, get closer._

_Closer._

_Careful,_ another voice chides. _Careful, or they’ll see you._

But does Killua actually care?

He doesn’t ponder the question. 

Killua scales the building until he can look in through the rubble inside, and his heart freezes. 

It’s almost like time didn’t pass. 

Four years ago, and now. 

_Did time pass?_

Everything looks nearly identical. 

The rubble, the candles, the people and the circle and their leader. 

Killua feels his breathing become uneven, and he forces himself to swallow as he watches Gon set down his bag. Nobunaga is sitting on a rock of concrete, staring at Gon, and his eyes light up as soon as Gon pulls forth the sword. He’s holding it out, arms extended to show it to Nobunaga without a word. 

Nobunaga smiles wide.

Killua feels his skin crawl and disgust fill him. 

_Fuck._

_Fuck, he hates that man so much._

He laughs aloud, coming forward. “Gon—” he takes the sword from him, tilting and turning and observing it in his grip. “You got the sword!” 

Gon nods. “Yeah.” 

His voice is so empty. 

Nobunaga brings down his hand and grips at his shoulder, and Killua notices the way Gon tenses—the way his fingers instinctively curl before relaxing. Anger simmers within Killua. 

_Don’t touch him._

“Did you get the other things we asked for?” 

This time, it’s Phinks who speaks. 

Gon nods again, stiffer this time. 

Pakunoda steps forward, looking through the bag. She takes each item out, and Killua can discern some scrolls, a few books—some items in containers, covered in recyclable paper. Phinks whistles, coming forward and taking the containers, shaking the content inside.

“You got everything we asked for.” 

_It’s not a question._

Another dutiful nod. 

“Impressive.”

“I told you he’d get it all,” Nobunaga laughs, his hand resting on Gon’s shoulder once again, and Killua grips his fingers into fists.

Gon is staring at the hand on his shoulder without moving an inch.

Nobunaga moves it off quickly. 

“I forget.” 

Gon doesn’t reply. 

“Gon,” Machi says suddenly, and Gon looks up at her—Killua’s own gaze shifting to her as she speaks. “The boss needs you to leave with him after this meeting.”

Killua’s blood runs cold. 

“He said it’s important.”

_They’re going to take Gon._

“For what?”

Killua doesn’t miss the slight tremor in Gon’s voice. 

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Didn’t ask. He’s out doing something, he should get here later, I guess.” 

Gon opens his mouth. Shuts it. 

_He doesn’t know what to say._

Machi arcs an eyebrow. 

Gon averts his eyes.

Killua is moving. 

He’s moving faster than he should, louder than he should—but he doesn’t care. Nothing matters: absolutely nothing matters. His Zetsu falls. He doesn’t mean it to, but it does, and he knows his presence becomes known when everyone in the Troupe is snapping their heads in his direction, Gon included. Killua doesn’t hesitate. 

One hand out-stretched, body in front of Gon, he side-eyes each member of the Troupe. One by one, he takes them in. Their appearance, their strength, their Nen. He digs up whatever knowledge he has from memories, and whatever he has from pure rumors. 

Ten members are there. 

Three are missing. 

Killua doesn’t bother wondering. 

“We’re leaving,” Killua says to Gon, and Gon looks floored, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

“Killua—”

“Well, this is a surprise.” 

It’s Phinks who speaks. He’s coming closer. Killua crouches lower into his stance, readying Whirlwind in case Phinks attacks. 

“Four years later, we have a reunion,” Phinks says, “What are you doing here?”

His voice is deadly quiet.

“I—”

Killua feels Gon’s Zetsu waver. 

“Gon.” Nobunaga’s voice is near condescending. Everyone’s eyes shift behind Killua, to Gon.

_Fuck._

_Stop looking at him,_

_Stop._

_Stop._

_Stop._

“Did you bring Killua?”

Killua turns quickly to Gon, eyes wide. 

Gon’s face is pale. 

He shakes his head. 

“Really? Then why is he here? Why are you with him?”

“I,” Gon stammers, “I didn’t bring him.”

Fear is pooling in Gon’s eyes. 

Rage builds within Killua. 

“Do we need to remind you that Killua left you?”

A quiet whimper leaves Gon’s mouth. His Zetsu near crumbles. 

“He’s a bad friend, isn’t he?”

Gon swallows. He’s not making eye contact with Killua. He nods anyway, fingers trembling. 

_The life is being sucked out of him again._

_God, he’s shaking._

_Gon is shaking._

“And so, then—”

“That’s bullshit!” 

Killua’s voice echoes and rings in the silence. He grits his teeth and clenches his hands into fists just to avoid his Nen spiraling out of control. The electricity cracks beneath his skin, begging to be used. Killua refrains. 

“I never stopped looking for Gon!” His voice shakes. “C’mon Gon, let’s go home.”

His words fall on deaf ears.

“We’re the only ones you can rely on, Gon.” 

Killua watches the way Gon’s light disappears more. 

It’s similar to when Illumi used to force him to dissociate. When Illumi would hurt him so badly, Killua would become a shell of his former self—eyes blank and emotions gone, he’d abide orders and do as told. Gon can’t—Gon can’t become that, not again. Killua won’t let it happen. 

“I never stopped caring about him!” 

“Then prove it.” Shizuku’s voice is so matter-of-fact, so light and nonchalant. It pisses Killua off. 

She wears a bored expression. “Prove you never stopped caring.” 

“I’m telling you—” Killua grits, and he feels something shift behind him, near Gon.

Slim, knotted fingers are grabbing his wrists, cold to the touch, and Killua feels a body shift behind him, pulling him away from Gon. Smaller in stature.

“How about you prove it with actions instead? We can start with a finger.” Feitan says from behind him, voice low and slurred together. It’s hard to discern his words, his accent thick and curled.

Killua grinds his teeth. 

“Don’t touch him—” Gon tries, but Killua shakes his head.

“Do it,” Killua seethes, and he allows himself to go pliant, “Go ahead, I never stopped caring about Gon.”

Fingers faintly reach for him. “No, Killua—“ Gon’s voice quivers. 

“It’s fine, Gon. I’ll prove it to you too.”

Something flashes in Gon’s eyes. 

Killua doesn’t have the chance to discern it, when he feels his wrist pop. 

The pain is indescribable, but he’s used to it. He can bear it. So he doesn’t react. Feitan had dislocated his wrist with a single finger, still standing behind Killua, observing his response, and despite the lack of abuse for years, Killua is at least proud to say he’s still conditioned to internalize the pain.

Gon, however, isn’t. 

His eyes widen. And his Zetsu wavers once again. 

Killua simply pops his wrist back into place. 

A curious hum. 

“You’re going to have to do a lot more than that to get something out of me.”

Feitan shoves him to the floor. 

Killua’s knees connect against the concrete, and he already knows it’ll hurt for a while. The floor had shattered underneath him. 

Some of the members of the Troupe turn their attention elsewhere. Others keep an intent eye. Killua doesn’t care about them. He keeps his eyes on Gon, whose fingers have curled into tight fists, knuckles white and shaking. He watches as Gon bites his lip and furrows his brows. 

“We have plenty of time,” Feitan says, voice quiet, before he outstretches his hand for Gon. 

It takes every inch of Killua’s willpower not to stand and knock Feitan’s hand away from Gon.

“Your knives.” 

Gon’s breath hitches. He looks between Feitan and Killua. 

The air stills. 

Slowly, Gon’s trembling hands reach down and grasp the knives at his thighs, undoing the velcro and unsheathing them. Gon is quivering, Killua can see his knees shaking. Hesitantly, he holds out the two small knives. 

Feitan takes them without complaint.

“I thought I told you to get bigger knives.”

A grimace. 

“These are so small.” 

He drags the knife down Killua’s clothed chest. His turtleneck rips—it rips under the glide of the knife, so sharp that it tears right through the wool seams. It’s hard to believe that Gon had sharpened them to this extent. A firmer press. Killua feels a liquid dribbling down his skin, followed by cool metal.

_He’s bleeding._

Gon realizes at the same time as he does—

—and presses his lips together. 

Killua doesn’t make a single noise of complaint. 

The knife continues its travel downwards, ripping the shirt in its path until mere black shreds are left. His skin is exposed, and the patches of scars on his skin become visible. Some are healed, simple white scars of various widths and lengths, but others are raised and bumpy and downright ugly. 

New scars will be added today, then. 

More blood pools down his chest. His stomach and abdomen trickle blood. His arms become red and raw. 

Gon grows more distressed the longer it passes. 

_Is it because Killua is being injured, or is it because his knives are doing the injuring?_

Killua isn’t sure. 

The knives clatter to the floor. Gon flinches at the sound, but Killua doesn’t move. Cold hands wrap around his body, and Killua prepares himself for what’s coming—until he hears a familiar _snap._ Gon’s breath chokes—Killua hears the pained gasp Gon makes. 

Killua grits his teeth from the pain that sears on his shoulders. It throbs, God, _it hurts,_ but he swallows the pain and keeps an indifferent face, staring boredly at Feitan. And while the pain makes his shoulders ache, nothing compares to Feitan taking his fingers and digging into the open wounds, peeling the skin back little by little. 

Excruciating. 

It’s so excruciating. 

He keeps his head leveled. He doesn’t harden his eyes. He doesn’t lose himself too far. 

_Stay present._

_Don’t lose yourself._

“Who are you?”

Just a little bit of glee fills Killua, with the hint of frustration in Feitan’s voice. 

He grins. “A Zoldyck.”

_That_ gets the Troupe’s attention. And Feitan gives a low laugh, something that warps from a chuckle to a full-blown laugh. 

“So then, physical pain won’t work.”

_No, it won’t._

“But psychological will.” 

Killua controls the urge for his eyes to widen. He controls the urge to stand and run. He controls every instinct and voice in his body telling him to grab Gon and run. But he needs to make a statement to Gon. 

And he knows there are telling signs of pain. 

A quiver of hands, a muffled cry. Watering eyes and bitten lips and heavy breathing. Those, he’s been taught to control. Illumi had drilled it into him, that every reaction is a weakness. But there are also natural reactions he cannot avoid—and the sweating of his skin? That’s one of them. 

He can quell his trembling hands. He can dissociate from the pain. He can lose himself in his thoughts to avoid focusing on the throbs that cover his body. But he can’t hide how his body actively betrays him and reads him to the room. 

There’s no hiding the sweat that breaks out, when Feitan leans close to Killua’s body on the ground. His knees ache but he doesn’t move. 

“Feitan—” Gon’s voice sounds more serious. 

“Has he told you how many times he tried to escape at first?” A quiet, teasing lilt. 

Killua’s heart throbs this time. The ache is worse than anything physical. 

“Fourteen times in two weeks.” 

He grinds his teeth. Presses his lips shut. 

“He always got punished after.” A chuckle. “And it’s funny, how the only thing he’d cry was your name.” 

The feeling of his heart falling is all-too-strong. It feels like an elevator falling too quickly, the rails coming undone. There’s a pit in Killua’s stomach, and his heart is falling right through it.

“It wasn’t like that at first. At first, he was quiet. There was a determined glint in his eyes. He was so sure you were coming back for him—”

Killua nearly growls. “I never left—”

“—but after a month, it was like something broke. And his silence changed. He made pained noises before he started screaming and sobbing your name.” 

Tears gather in Killua’s eyes. _He never left Gon._

_He never stopped looking._

“His voice was broken and shuddering. He’d throw up often, still calling your name. He believed you’d hear him and come back to him. And then, he stopped doing that too.” Another laugh. “He submitted himself completely. Has he told you why he refuses to cut his hair?” 

Gon takes a step forward. “Feitan, stop—” There’s panic underlying the coldness of Gon’s voice.

“It was because he kept saying he’d trim it when you came for him.”

Silence.

The words sink in.

Gon, who’d so quickly refused Mito’s request to trim his split ends. Gon, who’d bristled and shaken his head, hiding into himself, when Killua had offered to cut his hair shorter. Now he knows. _Now he knows._ He knows—he knows why Gon didn’t want anyone to touch his hair. Why it was so long.

_Gon had been waiting for Killua._

His eyebrows furrow and Killua bites the inside of his lip to keep from crying. 

“You’re both similar.”

Killua doesn’t want to know. 

“Physical torture didn’t break him either. All it took was telling him the same thing I’m going to tell you.”

Killua doesn’t want to hear.

Stop—

Stop,

Stop. 

Gon’s Zetsu wavers again. 

“You’re weak.” The words are punctual. “You failed Gon. Just like you’re going to fail every other person you care about.”

_Killua hears Illumi in those words._

He hears Illumi’s taunting voice—that he couldn’t be Gon’s friend, that he’d inevitably get Gon killed, that _he’d_ be the one to kill Gon.

In a way, he did. 

“You couldn’t even save your best friend.”

A sob wracks past Killua’s throat, and he lowers his head to hide the tears streaming down his face. He’s long forgotten the open wounds on his body—he doesn’t _care_ about the blood staining the seams of his pants. He doesn’t care about the pulled skin. 

“You weren’t there to protect him. Gon felt so betrayed, but he was never mad at you.”

“I spent years looking, I never stopped!” Killua shouts. “It’s all I did—it’s everything I did. I never once stopped imagining the hell you put him through.”

His voice rings and echoes.

Killua feels exactly when Gon’s Zetsu completely fades, and his Nen comes barreling out again. 

“Enough.” 

“It’s been so long, Gon,” Feitan says. “And you still can’t take a hold of your feelings. That’s how you got hurt the first time.”

“Let him go.”

“And if I don’t? This is fun.”

Gon’s aura is menacing. Tendrils of anger reach out—pure bloodlust. “Let. Him. Go.” 

The rest of the Troupe stares. 

They're all eyeing Gon.

“Settle this with a coin,” Franklin says. His voice is gruff amongst the silence. 

Gon stares Feitan down, before walking towards Machi. Killua can’t hear his footsteps. 

“Do you have a coin?”

She hums, fingers working inside her obi sash to pull out a single coin. Heads, the spider. Tails, a web. Killua recognizes it through a distant memory, when they were first stuck in the abandoned apartment building. He hasn’t forgotten the conditions. 

Gon turns. “Heads, and you let him go. We leave.”

Feitan’s eyebrows arch. “And if I get tails?”

“Let Killua go and you can torture me instead.”

Killua’s heart stills quickly.

Feitan stares. “It seems I lose him either way.”

Eyes hard, Gon looks down at Killua, before returning his gaze to Feitan. 

“I don’t care,” He says plainly. “You’d get me.”

_Killua wants to scream._

“Then flip it.”

Gon does. 

Killua’s heart hammers in his chest—he swallows roughly and forces himself to look up at the falling coin no matter how much it hurts or strains his muscles. Please, please—Killua presses his lips together—please, land on heads. _Land on heads,_ Killua pleads. 

When the coin connects with the dorsal of Gon’s hand, Gon’s hand comes down and covers it, before lifting. His fingers curl, before a small smile twitches on his lips. 

“It’s heads.” 

The relief that washes over Killua is palpable.

Feitan scoffs and steps away from Killua, his footsteps silent. And Gon is fast, rushing over to Killua, dropping onto his knees and softly touching his shoulders. 

“Killua—” Gon whispers.

Killua smiles. “It’s fine.” 

Two cracks resound. He pops his shoulders back into place. The sound unsettles Gon, who grimaces, and his hands skim Killua’s chest, trailing down to his torso. Featherlight touches, light presses into the skin. Killua doesn’t react, but it _hurts._

“Let’s go.” 

Killua lifts himself up as Gon collects his knives and shoves it in their sheaths. He sets the coin on a sheet of rubble, and steps beside Killua before they walk off together. Gon’s aura still has the intent to kill, and Killua rubs his own forearm with his hand as they walk, jumping over the fence and getting further from the factory. 

Their footsteps are the only audible thing.

“I told you not to follow.” 

Killua grimaces. “Sorry. I was worried.”

Silence. 

Gon sighs. He looks over, glancing at Killua. 

“Why’d you do it?”

He knows Gon isn’t talking about following him here. 

Killua shrugs. “Because I love you.” 

Gon looks away, thumbing at his throat. Killua doesn’t miss the trembling of his lips.

The factory is a mere speckle in the distance, and the sun has risen from its slumber, well past the horizon line. Killua suspects it must be around eight in the morning. It might take a while, getting back to the apartment. But if it means Gon is beside him, he finds he doesn’t really care. 

“You shouldn’t have offered yourself,” Killua says, staring at the slope of Gon’s cheek and the freckles which paint it, “How could you be so sure it wouldn’t land on tails?”

That gets a smile out of Gon, and he presses his lips together before digging into the back pocket of his shorts, pulling out a golden spider coin.

Killua’s eyes widen. “But I thought you gave—”

“I have my own too.” Gon gives a small, breathless laugh. Killua loves the sound—he can’t believe it’s a sound for his ears only. “Y’know how Gotoh did that trick with his coins? I do it too.”

A grin forms on Killua’s lips. “You’re such a sly idiot. What if they would’ve realized?”

“They haven’t for nearly five years now.” 

Killua bursts out laughing, and Gon gives his own, quiet laugh. 

It’s not as loud or unrestrained as it used to be when they were kids, but Killua loves it all the same. 

They continue walking at a leisurely pace, and while Killua loves this—loves the calm, the sun, and most of all, being beside Gon, he also wants to get home.

“C’mon, we can get to the apartment in under an hour if we use my Nen.” 

Gon’s head whips towards Killua, staring down Killua’s wounds and then his face. “Killua—you, you can’t! You’re injured!” 

Killua deadpans. “Right… But can an injured person do this?” 

And in one swift movement, Killua is picking Gon up, muscles shifting and hardening under Gon’s weight to carry him up, arms under his knees and back. Gon makes a noise of surprise. 

“Killua—” Gon stifles a laugh. “You can’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, keep struggling.” He smiles. “My Nen might tingle, it’s electricity—”

Gon rolls his eyes. “That isn’t going to bother me.”

A little part of Killua wishes it would. But maybe even twelve-year-old Gon wouldn’t have had a problem with his Nen. 

He smiles, and takes off. 

All they leave behind them in a trail of blue.

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The sun is shining outside.

Killua wakes up a little disoriented, feeling the space in his bed beside him empty. There’s a crash in the kitchen, and a swear, and a plate clatters. Something is frying—the air smells faintly of burnt eggs. Killua pulls himself up, grimacing as the bandages on his body pull at his skin.

The birds squawk outside.

After a few minutes, Gon’s head pops into the bedroom, long hair pulled into a messy ponytail. A small smile threatens to break on his lips when he sees Killua awake, pulled up on the bed. He’s holding a breakfast-in-bed table—it’s something he must’ve found hidden in the abyss of the cabinets—plated with scrambled eggs and toast. 

“Hey,” he says quietly. 

Killua smiles. “Hey, you made breakfast?”

A nod. “Your favorite.”

And Killua knows very well, scrambled eggs are not his favorite breakfast, let alone his favorite food—Gon knows this too, he _has_ known this for years now. Killua presses his lips together, shooting Gon a confused expression.

He sighs. “Yeah, okay, they aren’t your favorites, but I don’t know how to make crème brûlée, and I tried to make sunny-side-up eggs but I ruined that too, so—”

He’s rambling. 

Gon is nervous. 

It’s been a long time since Killua has seen Gon nervous, let alone ramble. 

A grin spreads on Killua’s face. “You remembered crème brûlée is my favorite, I think that counts for something. C’mere.”

Gon places the table across Killua’s lap, standing awkwardly beside him, scratching his cheek and looking away. It makes laughter bubble within Killua and threaten to spill. _Today feels good._

Killua pats the space beside him, where Gon usually sleeps. “Why're you just standing there? Come sit next to me.” 

One step after another, small and quiet against the floor, Gon walks over to his side of the bed and sits next to Killua, watching him eat the scrambled eggs with his fork. He stares at the plate, lost in his own thoughts, before Killua looks over.

“These taste really good.”

The words come out soft and gentle.

Gon looks up at him and gives him an unimpressed stare. “It’s burnt.”

Killua huffs, taking another bite. “But you made it, so it automatically tastes good.” 

If they were younger, Killua would’ve been too embarrassed to say something like that. But Killua is sixteen, nearing seventeen, and hopelessly in love with his best friend—in his highs and lows. He thinks praise is something Gon deserves in unrelenting waves. 

A light flush covers Gon’s cheeks. He doesn’t reply.

He takes a good look at Gon, and thinks over his words carefully—whether he should say it or not. He decides that he should. 

“I’m going to reach for your hand, is that alright?” A whisper. 

Gon stiffens, before relaxing and unwinding the coil in his shoulders, slowly nodding. A smile graces Killua’s lips, and he lets his hand snake the sheets before intertwining their fingers and thumbing the dorsal of Gon’s hand. Gon brings his stare down to Killua’s hand, intertwined with his, and looks up again after a moment. 

“Can…” He trails off, voice frail and quiet. “Can you say it again?”

Killua knows what Gon wants to hear. 

He sets the fork down and looks straight into Gon’s eyes. 

Gon can’t hold his gaze. 

“I love you.” 

Goosebumps rise on Gon’s skin.

He smiles. 

Killua gets back to eating until the plate is clean—the burnt scrambled eggs scraped off and the burnt toast is gone. He leans back, moving the table off his lap onto the floor and turns towards Gon, no matter how much his body aches in protest. 

Even if he’d undone the dislocation of his arms, it still hurt like a bitch.

“Hey, can I ask something?” Killua asks, voice hesitant. 

Gon frowns, but nods.

“About—about the Troupe, y’know…” He trails off. “What now? Are they going to look for you?” 

He’s worried about the reply he might receive. 

If they have to keep on the move, that’s fine. He did it for a while with Alluka before leaving her in Bisky’s care. He could do it again. But he worries about the Troupe finding them again. 

Gon shakes his head. 

“All it takes to join the Troupe is Chrollo’s approval.” Gon stares at their intertwined fingers, tightening his grip just a bit. “The spider tattoo is a secondary thing of acceptance. Leaving, well, it’s not like you’re there out of obligation—I guess. I mean, I kinda was, but…”

Gon thinks for a moment. 

“The Spider is always replaceable. If I left, I’d be replaced. It’s that simple.” 

_If it was that simple, then—_

Killua won’t force himself to think about it. 

He hums in acknowledgment instead, and drinks in the warmth of Gon’s presence.

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Water trickles down the fogged mirror from the condensation. The bathroom is steaming, and Killua steps out of the bath, toweling off his hair and drying his body. He picks up the pajama pants and loose shirt he’d folded and placed onto the sink, pulling them on and opening the bathroom door. 

It creaks open.

And Gon is sitting at the edge of the bed, form slouched over, forearm resting on his thighs. 

He looks lost in thought, staring at the spider tattoo there. 

He looks so pensive. 

Killua wonders what he’s thinking. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Gon is on the rooftop. He’s always on the rooftop. 

Killua heads up there after he’s cleaned the dishes, smiling to himself about Gon’s plate _and a half_ of food eaten. So much more than before, so much more progress. It’s nice—things are easier now. It’s more tranquil. He dries his hands and reaches for the thin blanket they’d draped over the couch. 

It’s easy, loving Gon. 

It always has been, and always will be. 

And—

—they haven’t done anything, nothing… _romantic._ They haven’t really discussed it either. Killua doesn’t… he doesn’t want to force Gon into anything. Not unless he was sure. Gon would always quietly ask for Killua to repeat the words, and Killua always would. As many times as Gon needs to hear it, as many times as Gon _wants_ to hear it. 

He would never get tired of saying those three simple words. 

But Gon has also been lost in thought recently. A lot more than usual, he just drifts off into his head. 

Killua isn’t surprised when he makes it to the rooftop and catches Gon sitting there, staring at his thigh. 

This time, his stare is a little too intent. A little too full of hate. 

Quickly, Killua comes forward, reaching for his hand and intertwining their fingers. Gon pauses. 

“Hey,” Killua says, voice gentle, “Don’t do that.”

Gon looks over at him. He’s quiet, mouth agape, and slowly, he squeezes Killua’s hand.

“Sorry.”

A small smile, and Killua drapes the blanket over Gon’s shoulders. Gon uses his other hand to pull it closer, huddling into it and waiting. 

Killua takes a seat beside Gon, close—as time passed, the space between them had inched closer to zero. Gon wasn’t so out of reach now. He was right beside him. And as soon as Killua pulls the blanket over himself, Gon is leaning his head onto Killua’s shoulder and staring up at the sky. 

“Y’know how the happiness star is here?” 

Killua gives a light chuckle. “Yeah, what about it?” 

Gon hesitates. 

He tenses beside Killua and doesn’t speak a single syllable. The seconds drag on. 

“Uh,” he stumbles over his words, “The lovers star is out, too.”

Killua’s heart beats faster. 

_Oh._

“It’s…” He trails off, “It’s right up there.” Gon lets go of the blanket to point at a random spot in the sky. Killua’s eyes meet it just momentarily, before snapping back to Gon. 

He’s so overwhelmed. 

_He’s so, so overwhelmed._

The happiness that courses through him is palpable. It’s like a tsunami that washes over him—drowning him in adoration and love. Elation. It’s just pure bliss. It’s always pure bliss, with Gon. Nothing could compare. 

Gon grips Killua’s hand tighter. Killua grabs Gon’s hand—the one pointing to the sky, and bring it closer to him, forcing Gon to turn slightly and look at him. The blanket falls off both their shoulders, and the chilly night sky hits them a little harder. Neither of them mind. 

It’s Killua looking into Gon’s eyes, Gon looking into his. 

Drowning in maple, drowning in ocean. 

Gon glances from Killua’s eyes to his lips. 

And then he’s leaning forward. 

_God, this was everything—_

The kiss doesn’t even last longer than a second. It’s a quick, chaste press—and it has Killua spiraling all the same. It steals his breath and chokes his lungs, his stomach swarms with butterflies and his fingers twitch with the need to get another kiss. 

_—everything he could’ve wanted and more._

Gon breaks the kiss and leans back, and his face is flushed more red than he’s ever seen it before. He squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his head, and Killua isn’t sure what he’s thinking, but Gon presses his forehead into Killua’s chest and gives a shaky exhale. 

He’s everything to Killua. 

A smile breaks out on Killua’s face. It forces his cheeks to bunch up—it forces his nose to crinkle and eyes shut from the glee of it all. He tries to suppress a giggle, excited and coiled and high-strung, and fails miserably. Gently, he releases Gon’s hands and cups Gon’s cheeks instead, pulling Gon away from him to stare back into his eyes. 

Gon’s eyes search his. 

“Can—” Killua swallows. “Can I? Again”

Gon stares, wide-eyed, and nods. 

And Killua leans in again, pressing their lips together once more. Gon shuts his eyes. Killua follows. This time, their kiss is longer. The seconds trickle by, and neither of them pull away. Gon’s hands fist the hem of Killua’s turtleneck and grip tightly. 

_He’s so, so happy._

They break the kiss with a gasp and laugh, and Gon is pressing his forehead into Killua’s, basking in the moment of it all. The sky is a dark blue color, swirling with black, gleaming with stars—splattered with different sizes and intensities. And yet, Gon is the brightest one of them all. 

_This is really happening._

Gon’s eyes are shut, and he sighs. It’s light and gentle and in pure _adoration._ Killua’s heart soars. He pulls away, opening his eyes slowly. Killua sees light in those eyes—he sees love. Gon has made a decision. He’s finally picked, and Killua has a good idea of what he picked. 

“Promise me,” he starts, voice weak and fragile and broken. “Promise me you’ll never leave again.” 

_Oh._

_Oh, Gon._

Gon reaches for Killua’s hands and intertwines their fingers, squeezing so tight—so, so tight. 

“Swear you won’t leave me again.” 

It’s uttered so brokenly—barely above a whisper, just breathed out. 

Killua tugs on Gon’s hands until Gon is crashing into him, a noise of surprise falling from his lips—and maybe they shouldn’t be doing this while sitting on a ledge, but Killua doesn’t care—and Killua wastes no time in wrapping his arms around Gon and hugging him as tightly as he can. 

Gon’s arms stay stiffly by his sides.

Killua’s voice is muffled. “I’ll never leave you, Gon. I swear it. I never left and I won’t let it happen again.” 

And then he feels it. 

He feels Gon’s arms twitch, and untense, and slowly come up to return the hug—slowly, inch by inch, until Gon’s fingers dig into the back of Killua’s shirt, fisting it, and Gon is hiding his face in the crook of Killua’s neck. 

Killua feels the tears. His skin gets wet with Gon’s tears, and he feels the puffs of air as he struggles to catch his breath. A sob wracks past Gon’s throat. And another, and then another. More and more. He sobs and cries and chokes out of breath. Killua holds him through it. 

Gon needed this. 

He grips and fists and tears and tightens Killua’s shirt without care. Killua lets him. 

Killua lets him cry it out, all he needs.

Four years of not knowing. Four years of silence. Four years of hatred and mixed feelings and torture. The frustration and the anger. Gon deserves more than a minute to cry it all out. He always deserves more. Killua’s hand comes up and he threads his fingers through the long wisps of black hair.

It takes a while for Gon to calm. 

Until his sobs are quiet sniffles, and then just short breaths and gasps for air. Until it’s just a swallow and nuzzling and basking in the warmth of being held so close. 

“You really won’t leave?” Gon speaks the words into the skin of Killua’s neck. They’re engraved there, now. 

Killua smiles gently, fingers continuing their movements through Gon’s hair. “I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it: I’m not going anywhere.” 

A choked breath.

“Promise?”

Broken, utterly broken. Afraid. Quiet and low, and yet his voice holds hope. 

“Promise.” 

They stay like that, in each other's arms.

Seconds bleed to minutes which bleed to several. Killua doesn’t care. Having Gon this close? Having Gon’s warmth like this? Killua could spend an eternity like this. He wouldn’t move an inch for his life. 

It’s not until a bit later that Gon pulls away, with a big smile on his face. It’s the most unrestrained Killua has seen him. Unrestrained and open. His cheeks are red, his nose too, and his eyes are wet and shiny. His brows furrow as he gives a weak laugh. 

“I’m home.” 

Killua smiles. “You are.” 

Gon extends his pinky after a moment of thinking. Killua remembers this very well. He extends his own pinky, and intertwines it with Gon’s. 

“Pinky swear made, whoever breaks their promise…” 

Killua couldn’t ask for anything better than this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading “Come Back Home (It’s Growing Colder and Colder Here)”!
> 
> Hello everyone! First of all, happy birthday to Killua! For his birthday, Sara and I decided we’d write the Phantom Troupe AU we’d discussed and happily serve him suffering with a side of happy ending. As frustrating as this AU was to write, Sara and I had a lot of fun discussing it and finishing it up. It hasn’t been long since I last posted, I’m well aware, but we do the absolute most. 
> 
> For this AU, we wanted to make it a series. We just love PT Gon too much, and the idea of it ever ending was too sad. So we’ll be adding (much) shorter oneshots along with this, and they’ll be of past and future Killugon, too. We really wanted to discuss the topic of Gon’s abuse and so more additions to the story will also feature Gon POV! 
> 
> Please don’t detest Gon :( He’s damaged—really, really damaged. We wanted to make his healing process as slow as possible. He suffered a lot, and he always trusted Killua and wanted to be with him, but another part of his brain kept telling him Killua would just hurt him again. And we wanted Killua to be patient and caring but also guilty of what happened. They heal with each other!
> 
> Obviously, this story doesn’t depict real torture, this isn’t at all how real torture works, but we wanted to stay as true as possible without being OOC, so we had to forgo logistics just this once. 
> 
> Huge thanks as always to my co-writer Sara as always! I couldn’t have done this without her. Her mind is so big, galaxy brain levels of energy. And also a huge shoutout to Liv for BETA reading this work! She’s such an angel, I appreciate her a lot. 
> 
> As always, do leave a comment on what you thought about this! I’m always eager to get feedback—whether it’s a sentence long or a full dissertation (I love these the most), I love replying and I appreciate every single comment. 
> 
> **I realize that AO3 has deleted several words from this document. For the most part, I've gone back and checked as much as I could. I still may have missed some moments, so let me know if that's the case. I apologize for this, I don't know what happened. The word that disappeared completely from the document was "stay".**
> 
> _Follow me on SNS:_  
>  Twitter: @peachiinari  
> Tumblr: peachiinari


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